The Great Northern Maple Syrup Adventure Part Three: Sanctuary
by nutmeg9cat
Summary: Fraser and Ray V followed the maple syrup. Back in Chicago, the 27th and Consulate try to follow their trail. In the course of the investigation, they uncovered a major international arms and drug smuggling operation. Trapped in the abandoned NORAD tunnels in Quebec, Ray and Meg, with Fraser in tow, fled for their lives only to find a doorway to ... heaven?
1. Chapter 1

**THE GREAT NORTHERN MAPLE SYRUP ADVENTURE**

**PART THREE: SANCTUARY**

**In Parts One and Two, Fraser and Ray V followed the trail of the maple syrup from Chicago to Quebec, while back in Chicago, the 27****th**** precinct and Canadian Consulate try to find them . In the course of their investigation, they uncovered a major international arms and drug smuggling operation. Trapped in the abandoned NORAD tunnels underground in Quebec, Meg and Ray, with an unconscious Fraser in tow, fled for their lives, only to find a doorway to ... heaven?**

**CHAPTER ONE**

Fraser opened his eyes. He blinked several times until his vision cleared. Gradually, he became aware that he was lying on his back. In a bed. In a room. Staring up at a white ceiling. Daylight streamed through a window to his left. Judging by the angle of the sun, it was late afternoon. He closed his eyes. Afternoon! His eyes flew open. He bolted upright, then groaned as his head exploded into a million pieces. He put his hands to his temples, gritting his teeth. It felt like giants wielding sledge hammers were pounding on the inside of his skull, trying to break out.

"That'll teach you to take it slow," a familiar voice said.

Fraser pried his eyes open a crack, and saw Ray Vecchio standing over him. When Ray saw him looking, he smiled. "Welcome back, Benny."

Despite the pain, Fraser managed a sickly smile of his own. "Hello, Ray," he croaked, before squeezing his eyes shut.

Ray propped a couple of pillows behind him, and eased him back. After a minute, the pain receded to a bearable level. He opened his eyes again.

"Here," Ray said, handing him a ceramic cup. He held it steady for him. Fraser's own hands were too shaky. It was water. Cool, delicious water that soothed his dry throat. He drank thirstily.

"Take it slow," Ray urged, pulling the cup away. "You don't want it coming up again."

When he finished the water, Fraser felt a little better. He eased back on the pillows and took a curious look around. He was in a very small room, simply furnished. He was lying in a narrow bed, which lined one wall, covered by a sheet and blanket. There was a night stand, a wooden cross on the wall above the closed door, a hook on the back of that door, with a brown garment hanging from it, a straight-backed wooden chair near the bed, a book splayed page down on the floor. Ray must have been reading in the chair, waiting for him to wake.

"Where am I?"

"The Abbaye de Sainte-Jean-Baptiste," Ray said, getting the pronunciation mostly right. "It's a monastery," he added, helpfully.

Fraser frowned. It meant absolutely nothing to him. "How did I get here?"

"It's a long story," he said, slowly. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Memories of the firefight at the warehouse facility flooded him. He sat up again, alarmed. "Meg!" He looked intently at Ray. "Inspector Thatcher? Is she all right?" The sledge hammers were back. His stomach lurched and he swallowed convulsively, trying to hang on to the water.

"She's fine, Benny. Take it easy." He eased him back. "I mean it."

Fraser leaned back against the pillows, breathing deeply until the pain in his head receded once more. When he opened his eyes, he saw the anxiety on his friend's face. "I'm OK, Ray."

Ray blew out a breath, and pulled the chair closer to the bed. As he sat, he said, "You, my friend, have a pretty serious concussion. Not to mention that bum arm." Fraser's right shoulder and upper arm were bruised and swollen still, the initial damage from the snowmobile crash compounded by the pummeling from the big security guard, the one who had marched Meg into the warehouse compound at gunpoint. She had told Ray about the fight between Fraser and the guard in Antoine's office, and how she'd ended it. The look on her face when she spoke of bashing Henri's head with the phone console still gave Ray pause. Fraser was looking down at the bandage on his right forearm.

"That's the cut I sewed up for you. Remember?"

"Thirty two stitches are hard to forget, Ray."

That was a good sign, he thought. "Do you remember the barge?"

"Home crate and canned peaches, yes."

"How bout the snowmobiles?"

"Yes," he said. "Did anyone find the Arctic Cat we left at the truck stop?"

He nodded. "The Ontario Police impounded it."

"Good. That was a sweet ride."

Ray breathed a sigh of relief. Benny was battered and bruised, but he was back. Sure, he was bound to be a little fuzzy, considering. But, that freaky little-boy-lost look he'd had in the underground room was gone.

Fraser was peering at him. "What are you wearing?"

Ray looked down at himself. "You like it?" He held his arms out at his side. It was a long, brown woolen robe with a cowl, tied at his waist with a rope belt. "It's very comfy."

Fraser chuckled, then stopped abruptly as his head pounded. "It's not exactly Armani."

"Don't laugh," he said, grinning. "That's yours hanging on the hook."

For the first time, Fraser realized his chest was bare. He peeked beneath the sheet. He was naked. He looked up, noticing that Ray was clean-shaven, his hair trimmed and neatly combed. He rubbed his own jaw. His beard was gone, too. He sniffed himself. A woodsy herbal scent filled his nose. Soap! He was clean and warm. After so many days of being grubby, smelly and cold, it was a delicious, decadent feeling, quite at odds with the monastic setting.

"They have a good barber here. Brother Michael," Ray said, smoothing his hair back with one hand. "He does a great tonsil."

Fraser blinked. Barbers acted as surgeons in the Middle Ages, but ...

"You mean, ton_sure_," he corrected. Then, his hand flew up to the crown of his head. To his immeasurable relief, his hair was all there.

"I stopped him in the nick of time, Benny. Told him if he touched that pelt, we'd be going a round, even if it was holy ground."

"Thanks, Ray," he said, sincerely. Then, he sobered, "How long was I out?"

"You've slept a solid thirty six hours since we entered the Abbey. A few hours before that, you were kinda in and out."

"Thirty six hours," he breathed, in disbelief.

"Brother Nathaniel - he's the doctor here - didn't want you traveling a coupla hundred miles over rough roads to a hospital. He's been taking real good care of you." He pointed to a clipboard on the night stand. "Someone's been with you all the time. Every twenty minutes, a monk was taking down your pulse and respiration rate. Making sure you didn't have a problem." Ray had told Brother Nathaniel about the plane crash last summer and the bizarre effects of the head injury Fraser had suffered at that time. Since he'd been carried into his infirmary, Nathaniel had been watching Fraser, like a hawk.

"But, thirty six hours!"

He shrugged. "Well, thirty. You've been stirring for the last six so they eased up on that. Brother Nathaniel figured you'd come around soon. Do you remember falling?"

Fraser frowned at him.

"Or the tunnel?"

"Tunnel?" His brow furrowed. "Tunnel. I'm not sure what I remember." He rubbed his forehead. "I've been having some odd dreams. Very odd."

Ray averted his eyes. "Like what?" he asked, a little too casually.

Fraser paused, gathering his thoughts. "Shooting a car so it would explode." A horrified expression crept over his face. "That wasn't ... I couldn't ... I didn't blow up your Riviera?"

Ray laughed. "No, she's safe and sound in Chicago. But, that was real. What else?"

"Climbing a glacier in the middle of a blizzard?"

"Dream. What else?"

The look in his eyes grew faraway as he struggled to remember. "The mountains. Fortitude Pass. I found ... " His expression darkened as he trailed off. "Never mind."

"Victoria?" Ray said, softly.

Fraser looked up, sharply.

"You were out of your head. You called her name a coupla times." At his alarmed expression, Ray quickly reassured him. "That's all. Just her name."

He swallowed. "So, not real, then."

"Not real," he confirmed, then quickly moved on. "What else do you remember?"

"A cave inside a mountain?"

"Well, we were in a tunnel under a warehouse. Half-dream, half-real. What else?"

"You'll laugh, Ray."

"I could use a good laugh. What?"

"I remember ... a red light. You and the Inspector ..." He waved a hand dismissively. "No, it's too bizarre."

"What?"

"Well, you and Inspector Thatcher were ... uh, locked in a passionate embrace." He laughed softly. "Weird, eh?"

Ray forced a laugh. "Me and the Dragon Lady?! Ha! Ha! Ha!" He punched Fraser lightly on his left arm. "Good one, Benny!"

"I know!" He chortled. "That's it. Oh, except ..." He looked sheepish. "I thought I saw an ... angel ... who appeared out of nowhere and guided us to safety." He shook his head, gingerly. "Some dream. I must have really been out of it."

"That, my friend, was no dream."

"Very funny, Ray."

"No, really," he insisted, "I saw him too."

Fraser was looking at him suspiciously, sure that he was pulling his leg.

Ray explained. "Except, his name is Brother Charles and he's one of the monks here." He settled back in the chair. "You see, Benny, seems there's this whole underground system of tunnels left over from an old NORAD site. Closed up when your government sold off the land in the seventies." He leaned forward. "Depardieu's warehouse - do you remember Antoine Depardieu? The guy whose Caddy you blew up?"

Fraser started to shake his head, then squinted in thought. "Wait! Do you mean the Boss, the one who yelled at Francois and Andre?"

"That's him. Turns out he's Toothpick Nardo's brother-in-law!"

He was delighted. "You were right, Ray!"

"So, were you," he said, grinning. "He's the other end of the smuggling operation. I'll explain all that later." He went on. "Anyway, all these tunnels were interconnected at one point, but were closed off when they sold the parcels to the public. The one we followed here -." He paused. "Oh, wait, you wouldn't remember that. After you blew up the car, you got hurt falling into the smugglers cache. You landed first, and then, we did a pile driver on top of you. I think your head got dribbled on the concrete floor a couple of times."

Fraser reached up and touched the back of his head. He winced at the lump he felt there.

"Ouch," Ray said, in sympathy. "Anyway, we followed the tunnel from the cache all the way to a dead end under the Abbey here. There was an old door down in their sub-basement, where they brew the beer." He spoke excitedly. "I know you don't drink, Benny. But you gotta try the beer here, when you're feeling better. It's great. Especially, the dark ale. They call it 'Elixir Celeste'." He translated, "The Heavenly Potion." He licked his lips.

"Ray?" he prompted. "The angel?!"

"Oh, right. Anyway, me and Meg - I mean, Inspector Thatcher - and you, of course, on the cart –" He caught Fraser's confused expression. He was really loading him up on way too much exposition. "I'll explain that later, too. Sorry about the knees, by the way."

Fraser looked down in alarm. He was relieved to see he still had knees. He moved his legs experimentally under the covers. Sore knees. And, a sharp pain in a new place.

"Butt hurt?" Ray asked, sympathetically.

"Yes."

Ray looked solemn. "That's where you got shot in the can." Then, he burst out laughing.

Fraser reached down under the covers. His left buttock and hip were very tender, but there was no wound, no bandage. He looked back at his friend, who was holding his ribs, tears streaming down his face. He waited patiently until Ray wound down and explained about the bullet deflected by the folded peach can in his back pocket.

"How long have you been working on that joke, Ray?"

"Since yesterday," he admitted. "OK. Back to the angel. There we were, trapped in that underground room, bad guys on the way, me pounding on the door ... when Brother Charles comes down to start the mash for the next batch of beer. He heard me. It took him awhile to move all the stuff out of the way, but he finally gets to the door. Now, he really had to shove, that door hadn't been opened in over twenty years. And, there he stood in his long, white robe, the light behind him. He looked just like an angel. We all thought so." He chuckled. "Even Meg." He added, "The brothers had just started their morning services with one of those whatchamacallits. DeLorean chants."

"Gregorian," Fraser corrected, automatically, though he was reeling as he tried to take it all in.

"Right! So, there's the light, the music, the angel. It was incredible!"

Fraser's headache had worsened considerably as he had listened to the story. He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes. Ray noticed how pale he'd become. He'd been warned not to overdo it by Brother Nathaniel. He patted Fraser's arm. "That's enough for now, I think. Why don't you get some rest?"

He wanted to protest that he'd slept thirty six hours straight, but when he opened his mouth, he yawned hugely. "'scuse me, Ray." His eyelids felt very heavy all of a sudden. "Where is the Inspector?"

"Oh, she's next door at the Depardieu facility. It's a madhouse over there. We've got the Surete bigwigs up from Montreal, some OPP head honchos, and a couple of top-level Mounties from Ottawa pow-wowing over all this. It's a big bust and everybody wants a piece of it." He grimaced. "I'm glad I'm out of it."

"But, Meg's OK?" he murmured, sleepily.

He nodded. "Meg's OK."

And with that, Fraser was gone. Ray moved the chair back against the wall and picked up his book. He'd tell him the rest of the story tomorrow. For now, he didn't need to know that Ray was under house arrest, confined to the monastery and its grounds until his status was determined. Turns out the Canadian government doesn't take kindly to foreigners who violate their gun laws and shoot up their citizens, even in a good cause.

He moved to the door. As he reached for the knob, there was a soft tap. He opened it. Meg was there. Putting a finger to his lips, he let her in and shut the door behind her.

She looked a question at him.

"He woke up," Ray said, softly. "We talked, briefly."

"And?" she said, anxiously.

He smiled. "He's OK. He's sore, a little woozy, major league headache. Mostly, he doesn't remember anything after he blew up the car, but his memory seems intact before -"

"What do you mean 'mostly'?"

He scratched his head. "Like in dreams. It's all jumbled. Glaciers, blizzards, caves, angels, Victoria, his father ... us." He glanced shyly at her. "He can't tell what was real and what wasn't."

Her expression didn't change when he said "us." So, denial was still the way she wanted to play that. Well, Ray was pretty good at that game, too.

"He'll be all right?"

"Yeah, I think so. I'm on my way to tell Nathaniel that he woke up."

She glanced over at the sleeping man. Then, back at Ray. "And how are you?"

He looked at her. "I don't know. How am I?"

She blew out a frustrated breath. "Hard to say. I'm doing my best, Ray."

So ... the duration continued. "I appreciate that, Meg."

"It's just that ... an American ... shooting Canadian citizens on Canadian soil tends to dredge up a lot of ... issues ... that really don't have anything to do with you as an individual."

"But, I'm a cop."

"Not here." She looked back at Fraser. "If he's awake tomorrow, they're going to want to take his statement immediately."

Ray bristled. "Jeez! Can't they cut him some slack?"

She flashed a smile at his mother-hen reaction. "I think he'd want to, if he knew that it would help you." She added, "Brother Nathaniel will have to approve it, of course."

Slightly mollified, Ray said, "OK."

She looked him over. "You should take a nap before dinner. You look all in."

Ray had been busy, too, watching over Fraser, reporting long-distance to Welsh, checking in with his family, and being questioned by a coterie of Canadian cops.

"I will." He opened the door. She was looking back at the bed. "You coming?"

"I'll just ... uh... " she nodded toward Fraser. "Be a moment."

"Understood," he said, softly. "See you later, Meg."

She nodded. He closed the door behind him as she approached the bed. Fraser, eyes closed, lay propped up on pillows. She almost removed them so he could lie flat, but decided not to disturb him. She studied his face. He was pale, thinner than he'd been in Chicago. Dark shadows smudged his eyes. His right arm and shoulder were a mass of bruises down to the bandage on his forearm. But, the monks had bathed and shaved him, in addition to treating his hurts. He looked more like himself. She laid a gentle hand on his forehead. He stirred slightly at her touch, without waking. This was normal sleep, she saw. Not that helpless, dead-to-the-world state that could have so easily tipped over into the real thing.

It was peaceful in this tiny room. She found she craved that peace. Since Brother Charles had opened the steel door in the sub-basement, events had proceeded at break-neck speed. She had hurriedly explained the danger to the astonished monk, who immediately granted her request for sanctuary. Ray had carried Fraser through the door and laid him on a heap of burlap bags filled with barley, then she had helped him with the bound, unconscious Antoine. There was nothing to be done for Emile and they had left him where he had fallen. Meg didn't breathe again until that steel door was shut and a heavy piece of equipment moved back in front of it.

Brother Charles, bless him, had quickly rallied the troops, or rather, the brethren. The injured men were brought at once to Brother Nathaniel's small infirmary. She had left Ray in charge on that front, while she had begged for a telephone. Officer Truffaut had immediately grasped the situation, the vulnerability of the Abbey once Depardieu's minions figured out where they must be, and the need for urgent action. His small force was there within the half hour. And, he had called in reinforcements. Braithwaite and the OPP showed up right behind them. Working together, the provincial forces had sealed the perimeter of the Depardieu Distribution Center and secured the Abbey. When the SWAT troops arrived by helicopter from Montreal, they had moved in.

To Meg's great relief, no shots had been fired. Antoine's second in command, somewhat at sea without him, had attempted to bluff it out, denying any wrongdoing. Confident that they had sanitized the premises, that the contraband was undiscoverable, and that the infiltrators were trapped underground in the maze of subterranean tunnels, he had consented to a premises search. But, Meg knew exactly where the illegal goods were stored and how to open the secret cache. They had seized the drugs and weapons and arrested the employees on site, some thirty eight in all. Not counting Antoine, who had woken up in the Abbey, spitting mad. Or Emile. He had been the sole casualty. There were wounded, of course, from the gun battle at the garage. But, none of those injuries were life threatening.

There was still much to be sorted out. The suspects had "lawyered up," to quote Ray, but he was confident that all thirty eight were unlikely to stand moot. But, Fraser and Vecchio had moved across state, provincial and international borders in their incredible journey. There were legal issues to be resolved at the highest levels. Ray was the most vulnerable. Meg had found, to her great surprise, that she cared deeply what happened to him here. She sighed. She supposed they had "bonded" by their experiences, as much as she hated that word.

One thing puzzled her. This whole adventure had started when Fraser discovered the Quebecois Dark Reserve in a Chicago eatery. Yet, they had found no trace of maple syrup, premium or otherwise, in the smugglers cache or anywhere in Depardieu's entire facility. Meg knew, of course, that a warehouse complex, part of the Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve's network, was only a stone's throw away from Depardieu's site. That facility was situated on another one of the parcels that was sold off by the government in the decommissioning process twenty five years ago. But, as part of its security protocols, it was hidden under a cloud of disinformation. The fact that one third of the nation's maple syrup supply was stored at a nearby warehouse under the name of Fleming Manufacturing and Supply was top secret. Even Officer Truffaut thought that the Fleming company site housed parts for farming and snow removal equipment.

After the facility was secured, Meg had conferred privately with Wendy Morris, her old friend in Ottawa. Wendy had leaked the locations of the syrup sites to her prior to Meg's flight into North Bay. Now, she confirmed that the syrup stores were regularly inventoried by government auditors. The last inventory had been completed the week _after_ Fraser had tasted the Quebecois Dark at the Chicago café for the first time. Nothing had been amiss. All the syrup had been present and accounted for at that time.

Now that Meg's missing officer was safe and sound, Wendy had begged her to keep the issue to herself, or they would both be in hot water. As far as Meg could tell, only she and Ray knew the location, and she had sworn him to secrecy on pain of disembowelment. The knowledge that the Reserve location was due east of Depardieu's property had saved their lives, leading them to take their chances with the eastern tunnel with the faint hope that they would find the Reserve and some egress out of the tunnel system that way. Instead, they had dead ended at the Abbey, which was situated in the middle, the halfway point between Depardieu's facility and the Reserve site on the opposite side of the Abbey's grounds. And, they had arrived, providentially, on Brother Charles' day to start the next batch of beer.

Over a pot of tea in the small parlor downstairs, Ray had filled her in on all the details of what had happened since he and Fraser disappeared from Brannigan's Wharf. She had been on the edge of her seat as he related a tale which had begun at a Chicago dockside, and spanned two Great Lakes, a waterway exchange of barges, the storm, the fight at the dock, the snowmobile chase, the pond, the truck stop, the warehouse, and finally, the Abbey.

They had both puzzled over the maple syrup. Ray told her of his and Fraser's conclusion that the syrup was never intended to be sold on the black market. Meg and Ray now surmised that it had been a bonus that Antoine had added to the shipment, a gift between brothers-in-law. Meg's best theory was that Antoine had secured a personal supply from a disgruntled syrup producer, who had refused to turn over all of his stock to the cartel. The fact that tracing the syrup had led her deputy liaison officer to a major international drug and arms smuggling operation had been, amazingly, a coincidence. Ray had shrugged philosophically. "Welcome to Fraserland, Inspector."

She sighed, wearily. There was nothing further to do tonight. To quote Scarlett O'Hara, tomorrow was another day. She brushed a lock of dark hair from his forehead, and let her hand linger there a moment. "Sleep well, Ben," she whispered. Just then, there was a soft tap on the door, followed by Brother Nathaniel toting his medical bag. She left him alone with his sleeping patient and retreated to her own narrow bed for a nap before dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

"... five men exited the Cadillac, and took cover behind a block wall several yards away from the vehicle. From that position, they could advance on Detective Vecchio, Inspector Thatcher and myself. It was necessary to distract, perhaps disable, them to prevent that. I fired a single shot from the .44 into the gas tank. When the vehicle exploded, I ran toward Detective Vecchio's position in the garage with the intention of taking cover within the underground cellar, and from there, defending our position or possibly finding an escape route." Fraser stopped speaking.

"And, then what happened, Constable?" Lieutenant Raoul Latourette of the Surete du Quebec prompted.

"I woke up here," he said, simply. "I am told nearly thirty six hours later."

"Here" was the small bedroom in the Abbey- St. Jean-Baptiste. It was crowded. Fraser sat, propped up by pillows, in the bed. Latourette, who had flown up from Montreal that morning, had the wooden chair. A stool had been brought in for the stenographer. Her machine took up the rest of the floor space. Fraser had wanted to get up, to sit in a chair, at least. It felt unprofessional to be reclining in bed while giving an official statement under oath. But, Brother Nathaniel had overruled him, insisting he conserve his strength for the interview process. At least, he had been allowed to dress. He wore a soft, white cotton surplice underneath the brown woolen robe. Ray was right, the outfit was very comfortable.

"You don't remember anything that happened after you, Vecchio and Thatcher fell into the underground cellar at the Depardieu warehouse?"

"Actually, sir, I don't remember falling into the cellar. My last memory is running toward it, but not actually reaching it," he said, then added, "I'm afraid it's all rather hazy from there."

The Surete officer pulled a plastic evidence bag from the briefcase at his feet. He handed it to Fraser.

"Can you identify the object marked A-12, Constable?"

"Yes, sir. This is my knife."

"When was the last time you saw this knife?"

"It was in my right boot when I ran for the underground cellar."

"Inspector Thatcher and Detective Vecchio have both stated that you threw this knife at Antoine Depardieu as he and his associate, Emile DeBecque, were about to shoot them in the subterranean room under the Abbey; that after being struck in the back of the head by the blunt end of the knife, Depardieu stumbled, discharged his weapon, and collapsed; that the bullet hit the steel security door that leads to the Abbey's sub-basement, ricocheted, and struck Emile DeBecque in the head, killing him instantly. Do you agree with this recitation of events, Constable?"

"No, sir."

"You don't?"

"More accurately, I can't, sir. As I said, I do not recall anything after running toward the underground cellar."

"You don't seem surprised at what I've told you."

"Detective Vecchio told me what happened, sir."

"Vecchio and Thatcher insist that you saved their lives. That Depardieu and DeBecque would certainly have killed them if you hadn't acted." He paused. "You don't want the credit for that, Constable?"

"I don't recall it, sir. However, Detective Vecchio and Inspector Thatcher deserve whatever credit is generated through these events. I was a burden to them for most of it." Fraser tried not to wince. The questioning had been going on for several hours now. The constant headache was worsening, the intensity ratcheting up as he tried to remember and coherently relate the events of the last several days. "I do regret the loss of life. But, I am gratified that Detective Vecchio and Inspector Thatcher survived." He squinted. The overhead light was bothering his eyes.

The stenographer turned to Latourette. "Excuse me, sir." She smiled apologetically, shaking her hands to restore circulation. "May I take a break?"

"Of course, honey," he said. "I have a phone call to make, anyway." He left the room.

The young woman went to the tray on the night stand. She poured from the long-cold teapot into two mugs. She handed one to Fraser.

He grasped the cup with both hands, trying not to slosh tea on the bedclothes. "Thank you kindly, Miss ... ?"

"D'Avila. Therese D'Avila," she spoke English with a Quebecois accent. "I have never heard anything like this! It's like an adventure novel." She looked back at the door, then lowered her voice. "I think you were very brave."

Fraser flushed. "Thank you." He hid behind the mug, taking a sip of herbal tea. "I was just doing my duty."

She smiled sweetly, then reached into her bag. "Here's my card. If you are ever in Montreal –"

He took the card politely, but was spared a response when Latourette returned. He unbuttoned the jacket of his meticulously tailored suit and stretched. Then, he said to the woman. "You can go, Therese. We're done here."

Fraser, surprised at this turn of events, took another sip of tea. He watched as Therese efficiently packed up her accouterments into the specially made case. She smiled warmly at him and wished him a speedy recovery. He thanked her kindly and she was gone.

Latourette stood looking down at Fraser. "I just spoke to the Deputy Attorney General in Ottawa. You're in luck. The Ministry is backing you on your 'hot pursuit' theory and officially acknowledges that your actions since entering Ontario and Quebec jurisdictions were performed in the line of duty as an officer of the RCMP." He yawned without covering his mouth. "You know that they found the body, eh? Of Jean Renoir? Undisturbed, right where you left it."

"Yes, sir," Fraser said, quietly. "Detective Vecchio told me. He said recovery operations in the pond will begin tomorrow."

"Yeah. The ice-breaking equipment has to be brought in. And divers, certified for cold water. Glad it's not on my turf," he said, with a mock shiver. "This place is bad enough." Latourette was stationed in Montreal HQ and had flown in to the rural Surete district after the arrests of Depardieu and his men. The small station had been overwhelmed.

"You were saying about the Attorney General ...?" Fraser prompted.

"Oh, right. Your shooting of Jean Renoir has been deemed justified.

"Justified, sir?"

"Ruled self defense."

"I see."

Latourette started packing his briefcase. "This is the biggest arms bust in Quebec law enforcement history. The drug seizure is not too shabby, either." He paused. "There'll be plenty of credit to go around. Well, not for the American, obviously." He smirked. "Don't worry, Fraser, you'll get your share."

Fraser frowned. "I wasn't worried, sir."

"They'll give you a medal over this, I'll warrant. You and Thatcher." He snapped the locks on the briefcase. He shot Fraser a look. "I'd like to be the one to pin it on _her _chest, if you know what I mean."

Fraser's eyes narrowed. "No, sir. I don't," he said, flatly. "Why don't you explain it to me."

"Steady on, son," his father said, in his ear. "Remember what the doctor said."

Fraser looked down at his clenched fists in surprise. Brother Nathaniel had warned him that his impulse and emotional control could be affected by the concussion. As Latourette opened his mouth to speak, Fraser leaned back on the pillows. "If you don't mind, sir," he said, "I'd like to rest, now." He closed his eyes and willed his hands to relax.

"Oh, uh, sure," Latourette said, taken aback at the abrupt dismissal. "Au revoir," he muttered, and picking up the briefcase, he hastily left the room.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

Ray poked his head around the door. "Mr. Stuffed Shirt gone?"

"Yes, I imagine he's happily winging his way back to his desk," Fraser said, sourly.

Ray raised his eyebrows. "Was he rough on you?"

"No." He smiled, wanly. "Let's just say a little of Lieutenant Latourette's company goes a long way."

"Desk jockeys," Ray commiserated. "How's Dief?"

Fraser brightened. "Good." When Brother Nathaniel had examined him this morning, he had brought the Abbey's portable telephone with him. It had been difficult to carry on a conversation with a deaf wolf while a sobbing Turnbull held the phone, but they had managed. "He was pleased to hear you were OK."

"I miss the little guy."

"I don't think he misses me. Between Turnbull, Francesca, Elaine and the rest of the squad room, he's become quite spoiled. Donuts, morning, noon and night."

Ray hoped Dief was enjoying the treats while he could. That gleam in Fraser's eyes meant lupine boot camp was starting as soon as he got home.

"And, how're you doing?"

"Fine," he said, automatically. When Ray rolled his eyes at the stock answer, he admitted, "Actually, I'm hungry."

"Well, it _is_ dinner time."

"Oh, good." He tried to summon some enthusiasm. Since he had awoken in this bed yesterday, he had been restricted to broths, tea, and a vile, but nutritious, herbal concoction, on Brother Nathaniel's orders.

"And, Nathaniel said you can come down for dinner. So long as you don't -" he paused, as Fraser nearly leapt out of the bed, "– overdo it." Ray reached out a hand to steady him, as he swayed on his feet. "OK?"

"OK," Fraser said, drawing a deep breath. The dizziness passed and he eagerly followed Ray out the door. It wasn't just the thought of a real meal that spurred him. He was keen to get out of the room, and curious about the rest of the Abbey. He had been confined to the narrow bed in the tiny room, except for short trips to the tinier bathroom that he shared with Ray. People had had to come to him. The Abbot, Brother Adrien, a short, barrel-chested man whose sharp wit and booming voice, despite his kindness, had left Fraser's head aching after his departure; the Inspector, looking harried, popping in just before his statement; then, the tiresome Latourette, accompanied by the lovely Therese.

During his medical visits, Brother Nathaniel had acquainted him with the history of the Order. The first monastery of the Brothers of Sainte-Jean-Baptiste was built in 1885 in Montreal though the Order was old, going back to seventeenth century France. This Abbey was a modern complex, constructed on former national government lands in 1976, the decommissioned NORAD site that also housed the Depardieu Distribution Center to the west.

The rural location had appealed to the members seeking a contemplative life away from the distractions of the city, where they could focus on prayer, study, physical work and their ministry to visitors and guests. For Brother Nathaniel, a licensed medical doctor educated at McGill, the pastoral setting allowed him to incorporate a more holistic approach into his practice of modern medicine. He grew his own herbs, crafting many of the remedies he dispensed to his patients from its harvest. In addition to the medicinal and culinary herb garden, the monastery grew most of its own food and raised its own meat. They were a frugal bunch, able to support themselves by selling their own cheese, apple cider, and beer. And maple syrup, Nathaniel had bragged, once the grove of sugar maples matured in a few years.

Ray gave him the mini-tour, narrating along the way. He took it slow, without, he hoped, making it too obvious. Nathaniel had read Ray the riot act about Fraser taking it easy for the next week or two. Ray liked the monk very much. But, he did not want to get on the wrong side of the physician, a fierce banty rooster of a man when it came to his patients.

Fraser greatly enjoyed the tour, both for its aesthetics and a chance to stretch his legs. The Abbey, though modern, resonated with its bucolic surroundings. He admired the clean lines of the main building. The architect's attempt to instill a sense of harmony by emulating the geometric laws of nature was masterful. Ray stuck to the Abbey's main complex. The outbuildings and grounds would have to wait. Still, the main structure was impressive enough, housing the living quarters for seventy monks and their occasional guests, office space, the brewery, Nathaniel's stillroom, the kitchens, and, of course, the chapel.

The Chapel of Sainte-John-Baptiste was noteworthy, all polished wood, flagstone floors, and stained glass. Ray made Fraser stand outside, in the hall, as he walked to the altar. He turned and spoke in a low tone.

"Can you hear me now, Benny?"

"Yes, Ray," Fraser said, astonished. Ray's voice was clearly audible more than one hundred feet away, even with the door closed. He joined him inside, admiring the solid wood curving strips on the walls and overhead. The chapel was polygonal in shape, its sinuous form, wood fins, and ceiling fretwork, reinforcing the image of a finely crafted musical instrument. Which, Fraser realized, it was.

"The acoustics in here were designed so that the choir can be heard everywhere in the building." Ray shot him a look. "With those Vulcan ears of yours, you even heard them down in the tunnel."

"Did I?" Fraser looked blank. "I don't remember. But, I've heard the choir from my room."

"Yeah, twice a day. Matting and vestas."

"Matins and vespers," Fraser corrected, automatically.

Ray nodded. "You can set your watch by them." He paused. "It's really ... beautiful."

"Heavenly," Fraser agreed, his lips quirking in a smile.

The tour ended at the dining hall, where long wooden trestle tables were set with crockery and utensils. The monks were already seated, ten to a table, and tonsured heads turned in unison as they entered the room. Smiles and greetings abounded. Fraser smiled shyly in return, uncomfortable at being the center of attention. Ray guided him to a seat at a table near the door where there were two empty places. He greeted the men seated there by name. Fraser sat down heavily on the bench, dismayed at the leaden feeling in his legs.

An older man sat to his right. He regarded Fraser with an appraising eye. "You're looking better, young fellow," he said. He looked familiar, but Fraser couldn't remember meeting him. Then, the penny dropped. Despite the mischievous expression, the resemblance to his dream angel was unmistakable, even without the celestial light and choir. It was the fringe of snow-white hair that haloed his head, framing the cherubic face. The monk gestured with his head at Ray. "I last saw you slung over that one's shoulder like a sack of potatoes."

"Yes, sir," he said, politely. "You must be Brother Charles."

"Benny Fraser," Ray said, "let me introduce you to my bros." There was a ripple of laughter around the table. "Brothers Charles, Adam, Nathaniel you know, Etienne, Maurice, Armande, Noel and Tristan." Greetings were exchanged all around.

Then, the Abbot at the head table stood. The room instantly quieted as he led the brethren in prayer. At the end, he said, "We thank you, Lord, for your restoration of our brother, Benton. We pray for your grace and healing as he continues on the path to lasting health. Amen." He looked out over the gathering. "We welcome you, Brother Benton, to our humble table. Brother Raymond, welcome back." There were murmurs of assent around the room. Fraser nodded his thanks, an unexpected prickling in his eyes catching him by surprise.

"Humble table, my foot," Ray said. "They have a cook here, Brother Victor. He's a lay brother, not a monk. He comes out every night after dinner and takes a little bow." He lowered his voice, adding for Fraser's ears only, "I'm telling you, Benny - and don't you ever, ever repeat this - " he looked up quickly, as if expecting to be struck by a lightning bolt. "We had something called 'cassoulet' for dinner. It was better than Ma's pasta fazool." Then, he said, in his normal voice. "You're gonna love the food, Benny. Last night, I thought I had died and gone to heaven."

Brother Charles put his hands together, looked angelic, and intoned. "Perhaps, you have, Ray."

"Nah, nah," he said, shaking a finger at the monk, "I'm not falling for that one again, Charlie." Fraser joined in the laughter at the table. The atmosphere in the room - he struggled for the right word - fellow feeling, camaraderie, joie de vivre, whatever - was like a tonic. He caught Brother Nathaniel watching him across the table.

"How do you like my prescription, Benton?"

"Very much, sir. Thank you, kindly."

"Don't overdo it," he cautioned, sternly.

"I won't, sir."

The first course was served, family-style, as a contingent of brown-robed monks carried soup tureens and set them on the end of the tables. Brother Noel who was closest, dished out steaming bowls of potage de navets and passed them around.

"What's a navet?" Ray muttered to Fraser as he sniffed appreciatively.

"Turnip." He spooned the thick soup to his mouth, blew on it, and tasted. It was sublime. He closed his eyes, as a sound of pure pleasure escaped his lips. Fraser looked up at the sudden silence, embarrassed to see all of his tablemates watching him.

"I'm sorry," he began, his face reddening.

"Don't be," Brother Charles said, with a gleam in his eye. "Good food is a gift of God and one of the few pleasures of the flesh we don't deny ourselves around here." He helped himself to his own soup, then moaned lasciviously.

Ray lost it. His laughter was so infectious that their table and several alongside were engulfed. Fraser got over his embarrassment quickly as Brother Charles had clearly intended and finished the soup, without further outburst. The freshly-baked bread and home-churned butter were equally as good, but he managed to restrain himself. Humble ingredients, elevated to the sublime by the skill of Brother Victor.

The conversation around the table was lively. There were several topics of discussion whirling about - art, gardening, politics, automobiles, old movies, animal husbandry. Fraser was content to concentrate on the soup and sit silently for the most part, though he joined a discussion about the relative merits of Rhode Island Reds versus French Houdans between Brothers Tristan and Maurice.

He had just taken another bite of bread when he heard Brother Etienne, who sat across from Ray, say, "It's hard to believe that Antoine Depardieu is a criminal. The man was one of our most generous donors. Came here once a year on retreat." He shook his head, ruefully. "You never know, do you?"

"No, you don't," Ray agreed.

Etienne leaned closer. "I was a lawyer in my old life, Ray. I can recommend a good criminal defense man in Montreal."

Ray studiously avoided looking at Fraser. "Thanks, Etienne. I'll keep that in mind. I'm still hoping that this will all blow over."

The bread stuck in Fraser's throat. He hurriedly gulped water and swallowed. "Ray? Are you in trouble?"

Before Ray could respond, Etienne said, "Didn't you know? There's talk of charging him in both provinces. Until then, he's under house arrest, here at the Abbey."

Fraser stared at Ray, stunned. His appetite evaporated.

Ray was apologetic. "I was gonna tell you after dinner, Benny. We'll talk later, I promise." He turned away to answer a question put to him by Brother Armande.

Fraser sat there, oblivious to the conversations that buzzed around him. Maybe it was a symptom of his injury, but he couldn't wrap his mind around how Ray could be facing criminal charges. And facing them alone, while he had been languishing in bed. His head pounded harder. Suddenly, it was all too much. The headache, the babble of voices, the clatter of cutlery, the smell of the food. His stomach roiled. He lurched to his feet. "I'm sorry," he muttered, through clenched teeth, and pushed away from the table. He stumbled out of the dining hall and found a door to the outside.

Ray caught up to him in the courtyard that looked over the herb garden. Fraser was bent over, hands on his knees, gulping the cold, night air. Ray put a cautious hand on his left shoulder.

"You OK?"

Fraser couldn't speak so he shook his head. He was afraid if he opened his mouth, he'd vomit his first hot meal in a week onto the flagstone path. He stood like that, breathing deeply, until the nausea receded. Ray helped him to a stone bench. They sat, looking over the snow-covered garden, without speaking.

Brother Nathaniel joined them, holding a mug in his hand. "Here," he handed it to Fraser. "This will help."

He eyed it suspiciously.

"It's mint and chamomile tea," he nodded at the garden. "From my own plants."

Fraser sipped judiciously. Brother Nathaniel peered into his eyes, took his pulse, told him to take it easy, then left them alone.

He felt a little better after he finished the tea. "You're missing your dinner, Ray."

"Nah, I had enough. That soup was pretty filling," he lied.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, Benny. You just overdid it on your first day up."

"I'm sorry that you're in trouble." He looked at his friend. "Tell me."

Ray looked him over carefully, then judging that to keep him in the dark would be crueler, said, "Where to start?" He rattled off points on his fingers. "First, my gun isn't registered in either Ontario or Quebec. Two, I discharged my gun in Ontario when I fired at Jean and company, you know, when you fell off the snowmobile. Apparently, it doesn't matter that I was out of range and only fired to get their attention. The fact is I discharged an unlicensed handgun in the province. They're gonna give me a pass about the three guys in the pond. Since they were stupid enough to drive their snowmobiles out on to the ice, that's on them. But, the kicker is the firefight at Depardieu's warehouse. I shot said illegal handgun at several people, wounding a few. That raises the bar to assault with an illegal handgun."

"But, Ray, you only acted in defense of self or others."

He nodded. "I told them that. So did Meg. So did you, in your statement today. Welsh has been on the phone with the muckety mucks up here, too." He shrugged. "It'll all probably just blow over," he said, unconvincingly.

Fraser sat back. "You and I took the same actions under the same circumstances. Yet, I may get a medal. And, they want to charge you?" He rubbed his temples. "I don't understand."

"It's simple, isn't it? You're the hometown boy and I'm the ugly American."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Detective," said a voice behind them. "You're not that unattractive." Inspector Thatcher walked toward them, looking elegant and professional in a blue tailored suit.

Fraser rose to his feet. "Sir, I must protest the treatment of Detective Vecchio in this –"

She interrupted him. "Stop right there, Constable. I've had a long day," she said, wearily. She blew on her hands. "It's freezing out here." She turned on her heel and marched back to the door into the hall. She looked back at them in disgust. "Well, come on!"

Ray and Fraser exchanged glances, then hurried to catch up with her. They followed her into a small parlor off the hall. A fire blazed in the hearth. Before it, a small table was set for one.

Fraser looked at the table, then at her.

"The order of Sainte-Jean-Baptiste is very traditional, Fraser," she explained. "No women allowed. Since there is nowhere else for me to stay, Brother Adrien has graciously granted me temporary special dispensation so that I may sleep in one of the guest rooms. But, he draws the line at the dining hall," she said, primly. She sat and spread a linen napkin on her lap. She directed Ray and Fraser to pull up two more chairs. "I assume you have eaten?"

"Yes, sir," Fraser said. Ray mumbled something unintelligible.

She sipped a glass of water. "I heard your statement went well."

"I just told the truth, sir."

"Of course, Constable. I would expect nothing less." She steepled her fingers and leaned forward. "I have been in meetings or on the telephone since early this morning. In that regard, I have good news and bad news."

Right on cue, Fraser asked, "What's the good news?"

"The good news, Constable, is that Ottawa and the provinces have determined that our actions, yours and mine, were at all times, lawful, if a trifle unorthodox. More than lawful. Laudable. Commendations will be coming our way." She paused as a monk entered the room with a covered dish. It was the turnip soup and bread. Fraser held his breath, but his stomach seemed to have settled down. She talked as she ate.

"There's a lot of excitement in high places over these arrests, gentlemen. At both provincial and national levels. And not just in Canada." She turned to Ray. "You heard that Frank Nardo was arrested today?"

Ray nodded. "Welsh told me." Fraser and Ray had witnessed the murders of Vinnie and Joey being carried out on the direct orders of Frank Nardo. While there was no _corpus delecti_ - the bodies could not be produced - the blood evidence at the scene and on Ray's overcoat, combined with their testimony, was sufficient to support a case for first degree murder against Nardo, according to State's Attorney Louise St. Laurent. Welsh was hopeful that deals would be made with his underlings to testify against Nardo now that the bigwig was in custody and his organization in disarray. As he pointed out, all it took to start the domino effect was one piece tipping over.

Thatcher tore a piece from the small loaf of bread, buttered it, and took a bite. She had never tasted better in her life.

Fraser gave her a moment to swallow, then prompted, "And the bad news, sir?"

Ray thought, proudly,I taught him that.

She looked at Fraser. "There's a problem with Detective Vecchio."

"Sir, what Ray did is deserving of the Meritorious Service Cross, not criminal charges. His actions were as justified as yours and mine. What happened at - "

She held up a hand to cut off his impassioned plea. "You're preaching to the choir, Constable."

"Sir?"

She rolled her eyes. "I agree with you."

That brought him up short. "Y-you do?" he stammered.

"I do. Detective Vecchio at all times conducted himself with ... ". She mumbled something that neither Fraser nor Ray could catch.

He cocked his head. "Pardon, sir?"

"I said," she repeated, "Detective Vecchio conducted himself with courage and honor." They both stared, open-mouthed, at her. "Well, he did," she said, defensively.

"Thanks," Ray managed.

She waved a hand, dismissively. "What I think, doesn't matter." She spoke directly to Ray. "I know you are unfamiliar with the ways of our country, Detective. And, Constable Fraser is ... to put it, baldly ... politically obtuse."

Neither Fraser nor Ray objected to such a patently true statement.

"So, I'll try to explain." She took a deep breath before continuing. "On one hand, you have many supporters in the Surete, the OPP and the RCMP, Detective. They tend to be the ranking officers that have real field experience. They are appalled that charges against you are even being contemplated." She paused, looking at Ray directly. "On the other hand, there are voices within certain circles who are trying to turn you into a symbol for American overreaching. And, I'm sorry to say, a lot of people would react strongly to such a symbol."

"I'm a man, not a metaphor," Ray protested.

"Nonetheless, I'm afraid slapping you down would have a certain appeal in those quarters." She added, drily, "One can sympathize." As he started to bristle, Ray caught Dragon Lady #101, the I Do Have a Sense of Humor, But I'll Be Damned If I Admit It look.

"Aw, get in line, lady," he quipped, without rancor.

Fraser looked quizzically back and forth between them. Were they actually teasing each other? It seemed that something had passed between them that he had missed. Perhaps, Ray and the Inspector had forged a bond during the ordeal in the warehouse and tunnels, as hard as that was to imagine. Unbidden, his dream image of the two of them wrapped in each others' arms popped into his head. Could that have been ... real? Laughter bubbled up inside him at that ridiculous thought. He choked it off, but not before a strangled chortle had escaped.

Two heads swivelled in his direction. Fraser pretended to cough. Ray obligingly pounded him on the back, which only made his head and shoulder hurt more. Breathless, his face red, he apologized for the interruption.

Meg turned serious again. "As far as I can tell, there is one man who is leading the charge against you."

"Who?"

"Brian Forbes."

Fraser sat up straighter at the name.

Meg looked closely at him. "Do you know him, Fraser? I understand he started his career in the Yukon."

"I've met him, sir. Once," he said. "At Sergeant Gerard's trial. I think that was the first time Deputy Superintendent Forbes had returned to the Yukon in more than a decade."

"I don't know the man," she said. "Just his reputation."

"Tell me, Benny," Ray begged.

He did. About ten years Fraser's senior, Brian Forbes had started his career in the Yukon, but hadn't stayed long in the North. His rise in the RCMP had been meteoric. By the time Fraser had graduated from the Academy and had his first posting, Forbes was already a deputy superintendent in Ottawa. Photogenic and media-savvy, he had been assigned as the RCMP's representative on site at Gerald's trial.

The official position Forbes espoused was that Sergeant Gerard was a rogue officer and Fraser had done the Force a service by publicly exposing his misdeeds. The ice-cold shoulder he had given Fraser at the courthouse revealed his personal opinion on the matter. With the resignations and terminations in the wake of the Yukon Dam scandal, Forbes' career trajectory in the RCMP had skyrocketed. He had parlayed that into political office when a vacancy opened up. He was now a Member of Parliament, the chair of the RCMP oversight committee. In that position, he would have considerable influence with all law enforcement agencies, including the Surete and OPP. A powerful man to run afoul of.

"Great, just great," Ray muttered. "I need a drink."

Just then, a young monk entered the room, carrying a tray of covered dishes. There was a small silver vase on the tray with a single red rosebud in it. He set the tray in front of Meg. She lifted the cover off a dish. A delicious smell wafted from it.

"Hey, Brother Matthew?" The young man looked up at Ray. "Can you bring me some of the Elixir, please?" He turned to Fraser. "Wanna try some of that ale, Benny? For medicinal purposes? Benny?"

Fraser was staring at the plate of food in front of Meg. It was some kind of rich, dark stew with little crispy bits on top. He had a funny look on his face. Then, he screwed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply through his nose.

Uh-oh, Ray thought. "Benny! Hey, Benny! You gonna be sick?" He reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Constable?" Meg pushed her chair back nervously, trying to get out of the line of fire.

To her and Ray's astonishment, Fraser snatched up the plate and brought it to his face. He sniffed deeply, eyes closed. Then, he did it again.

"If you're that hungry, Fraser ... " Meg began. His behavior was starting to alarm and annoy, in equal measure.

He didn't seem to hear. He grabbed a utensil and spooned stew into his mouth. He turned to Ray, eyes wide. "Venison!" He picked up one of the crispy bits, nibbled delicately on it, and shook it at Ray. "_Lardons_!" He took another spoonful. "Grandmother's recipe!" He nearly shouted that last.

Meg and Ray exchanged worried glances. Then, he said, soothingly, "OK, Benny. Time for bed. It's been a long day."

Fraser became aware that Thatcher, Ray and the monk were staring at him in alarm. He looked down at the plate of food in his hands, then carefully set it back in front of the Inspector. "Uh, sorry, sir." He shoved his chair back. "Excuse me. I need to pay my compliments to the chef." He bolted from the room.

Ray and Meg stared at each other, before scrambling after him.

"What is he talking about?" she said, in exasperation. "What recipe?"

"I dunno," Ray replied, mystified. "His grandmother was a terrible cook."


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

A rotund, little man wearing kitchen whites, with curly salt and pepper hair and big black moustache, was carrying a tray laden with little dishes as Fraser burst into the kitchen. "Mon Dieu!" he cried, nearly dropping the tray. He set it down with a clatter on the butcher block table against the wall, and stared, open-mouthed, at the intruder in his domain.

Fraser wanted to apologize for startling the man, but he was having trouble catching his breath. The kitchen spun around him and he reeled against a wall. The next thing he knew, Ray was shoving him into a chair and pushing his head down between his knees. As he stared at the flagstone floor, Fraser belatedly realized that sprinting from the parlor, across the hall, and down the stairs to the kitchen might just fit Brother Nathaniel's definition of 'overdoing it'. And, in a moment of epiphany, he recalled the doctor's warning about impaired impulse control. He gulped cinnamon-scented air as spots danced before his eyes.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" he heard the cook exclaim.

In French, Meg apologized profusely for the interruption, trying to explain that Fraser was ill, that they would take him out of the kitchen as soon as he could stand -

The cook switched to heavily-accented English. He clucked his tongue. "The poor boy," he said, shaking his head. "He is, of course, Nathaniel's patient? The one with the bad head?" Then, he regarded Meg. "You are la mademoiselle-Inspector!" He kissed her hand. "Enchante. I am Brother Victor." He smiled shyly up at her. "But, be assured, I am a lay brother, not a monk. I have taken no vow," he said, meaningfully.

Meg politely, but firmly, extracted her hand. "It's a pleasure."

He turned to Ray, who was keeping a firm hand on the back of Fraser's neck, pushing his head down below the level of his heart. "You are the American copper?" He grinned, and mimed shooting a gun from his hip. "Bang, bang!"

Ray ignored that and stuck out his free hand. "Ray Vecchio," he said, then added. "I love your food."

Brother Victor beamed. "Merci beaucoup."

"I was wondering if I could get your recipe for the 'cassoulet' we had last night. For my mother."

Fraser was struggling to sit up, but Ray ignored him.

"But, of course, m'sieu. I will write it down for her."

Fraser reached back with his left hand, trying to pry Ray's fingers off the back of his neck. Unsuccessfully.

"Thank you. Ma'll love it."

Ray released his grip. Fraser, straining against it, popped up like a jack in the box to find three people staring at him: Brother Victor, with curiosity; Ray, with concern; and the Inspector, with fire in her eyes. Oh, dear, he thought, as he swayed in his seat. He put his head back down and took deep breaths, trying to quell the dizziness and nausea.

Meg smiled at Brother Victor. "I apologize for my subordinate, m'sieu." Her voice grew steely. "Constable Fraser has foolishly overextended himself on his first day out of bed. We will have him out of your way, very shortly. And, back in the bed where he so obviously belongs." Ray flinched as she glared at him. In proxy, he supposed, since Fraser, bent double in the chair, was out of her line of fire.

"He is not in the way," Victor said, kindly. "Please, sit down, mam'selle, m'sieu." He gestured them to the other chairs at the table. They sat. "I must finish the desserts."

Ray watched as Brother Victor spooned thick cream on to little bowls of warm bread pudding. He carried the tray to an open dumbwaiter in the wall, set it inside, then pushed a button. The tray moved silently upward. Ray took a look around the kitchen. If Ma had been here, she'd have thought she'd died and gone to heaven. Three ovens, an industrial range with twelve burners, shiny copper pots, fragrant bundles of dried herbs, and pungent braids of garlic hanging from hooks on the walls and ceiling. Baskets of apples lined a long counter. As Brother Victor prepared another tray of little dishes for the brethren upstairs, Ray licked his lips.

Victor looked over his shoulder. "Perhaps, our patient desires a recipe, also?"

"No," Meg said, crisply. "He doesn't."

But, Ray felt a tug on his pants leg and looked down. Fraser's head was bobbing in the affirmative.

"Yes, he does," Ray blurted. He took a guess. "Tonight's stew." When Meg shot him a look, he said, defensively, "I think he really liked it."

Brother Victor lowered his head to Fraser's. "Oh, I am so sorry, m'sieu. I cannot. My Meme swore me to secrecy before she died." When he saw Ray's puzzled look, he translated, "My grandmother."

Meg and Ray exchanged glances, then looked at the back of Fraser's head in astonishment.

"How did he know?" she demanded.

But, a little bell was ringing in Ray's head. Venison stew ... venison stew ... with the crunchies on top ...

"Brother Victor, what was the garnish on the stew? Those crispy things?" Ray asked.

"_Lardons_, m'sieu."

All the bells were clanging in Ray's head now, as if he had a little Quasimodo swinging away in there. He closed his eyes, and remembered back several days.

_Flashback - the Smugglers Cove, just after the barge and tugboat were moored._

"_What are they saying?" Ray whispered to Fraser._

"_Francois, the name of the man from the cabin, is complaining they are late for dinner. Jean - the captain of the boat and, by the way, Francois' cousin on his mother's side, told him about the storm. Francois has made his grandmother's recipe for venison stew with lardons. With," he added, "her secret ingredient." _

_At that, Ray's mouth began to water uncontrollably. "What's a lardon?"_

"_Bacon that has been diced, blanched and fried." _

_Ray swallowed and wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth. "What's the secret ingredient?"_

"_I don't know, Ray," Fraser said, in the tone of one stating the obvious. "It's a secret." _

Ray opened his eyes and looked at the chef. With dawning realization, he said, "Brother Victor ... the secret ingredient ... in the stew ... " He paused. Before he formed the words of the question, he knew with utter certainty, what the answer would be. "Is the secret ingredient in your grandmother's venison stew with_ lardons_ ... the Quebecois Dark Reserve?"

"Oui!" Victor said, surprised. "Since you already know, I don't suppose there is harm to say. That was Meme's secret." He looked at Ray with interest. "You are the first to discern that, young man. I congratulate you on your palate."

"Not me," Ray said, shaking his head and pointing down at Fraser. "Him."

Victor looked at the back of Fraser's head, appraisingly, "Is he a chef, as well as a policeman?"

Ray snorted. Fraser was a man of many and varied talents, but cooking was not one of them. He kept to himself what disgusting things Benny usually used his "palate" for.

Fraser lifted his head tentatively, then leaned back in the chair. Everybody stared at him. After a moment, Ray was relieved to see that he stayed upright and didn't hurl, though he swallowed convulsively a couple of times.

Meg also studied him, though in a less forgiving manner. "What is so important, Fraser, that you would interrupt my meal, gobble from my plate, and dash in here in the middle of busy dinner preparations to disturb Brother Victor?"

Fraser sheepishly rubbed an eyebrow with his thumb. "I apologize, sir, and to you, Brother Victor. I wanted to ask the question that Ray just asked." He shot his friend a grateful glance.

"Explain yourself, Constable."

Fraser took a deep breath. All eyes upon him now, he said, " According to Brother Nathaniel, the Order of Sainte-Jean-Baptiste strives to be self-sufficient. They eat what they grow, or they do without. For example, the Abbey has planted sugar maples, but they are not yet producing."

Victor nodded, "It takes thirty to forty years for the trees to mature before one can tap them."

Fraser thanked him for that information and continued. "The Order's cash crops - cheese, cider, their excellent beer - are used to buy the things they cannot produce." He looked at the cook. "Am I correct, sir, that the pudding there is made from yesterday's bread?"

"Of course," he said, as he worked, "We waste nothing here. Take yesterday's bread. Add eggs, apples, sugar, spices and," he kissed his fingers, "voila, you have today's dessert." He added, "Stir in oatmeal and you have tomorrow's porridge."

"Fraser," Meg said, impatiently, "we are not here to exchange cooking tips!"

"Yes, sir. But, as you can see, the brethren are a very thrifty order."

"The point, Constable?"

"The Abbey does not produce its own maple syrup. Yet, Brother Victor has used the Quebecois Dark liberally in a stew in sufficient quantity to serve seventy hungry monks and their guests. The Quebecois Dark is the most expensive maple syrup in the world. Such a large quantity would be prohibitively -"

Meg interrupted him, turning to Ray. "Didn't you tell him?"

"You said you'd disembowel me!"

"Tell me what?"

She ignored Fraser, and spoke to Ray. "Not that part of it!" she said, glancing meaningfully at Brother Victor. "The other part." As Ray continued to look blank, she dropped a hint. "You know, the red herring."

He stared at her, feeling obtuse.

Meg mentally rolled her eyes. "About the maple syrup being a red herring," she prompted.

"Oh," Ray said, then turned to Fraser, "The maple syrup was a red herring."

Victor made a face. "Herring? I would not recommend the Dark on herring, red or otherwise."

Fraser put a hand to his mouth, trying to dispel that nasty image before he began heaving.

At that moment, a little bell rang on the wall above the dumbwaiter. Brother Victor reached to untie his apron. "I must go." He looked at Meg. "Please, stay, mam'selle, m'sieus, until I return. I will not be long." At her nod, he turned to go, then turned back. He put a finger alongside his nose. "You may speak freely, now."

Ray said, after he left, "He's off to take his nightly bow." He reached into the empty baking pan that sat on the table, pulled off a morsel stuck to the bottom, and popped it into his mouth. "He deserves it."

Fraser was looking back and forth between Ray and Meg. "I don't understand," he admitted.

"You tell him," Ray said, as he pulled the pan closer.

Meg shot him a disgusted look, then said to Fraser, "There was no maple syrup at the Depardieu Distribution Center ...," she began, explaining events that had happened while he lay insensible, and the conclusions that had been drawn from them. She finished with, "... so it seems, Fraser, that the maple syrups that you tasted in Chicago have no connection to the Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve. The location of the storage facilities in their network is classified, as you know. I cannot disclose to you where they are." She shot Ray a very significant look, but he was too busy scraping the pan to notice. "But, I have it on the highest authority that all of their syrup is present and accounted for."

Fraser had seen the look and the implication was clear. She had told Ray. "Y-yes, sir," he said, uncertainly. She didn't trust him with that sensitive information, yet she had told Ray? What _had_ happened down in the tunnel between his commanding officer and his best friend?

"You see, Benny," Ray said, helpfully, "it was a coincidence. The reason we couldn't find any reports of maple syrup being stolen on either side of the border was because the maple syrup that Depardieu sent south to Nardo _wasn't_ stolen."

"Antoine probably purchased it from a scofflaw," Meg added. "A producer who doesn't like being told by the government he has to give over his entire crop to the cartel."

Fraser was silent for a long while. "I see," he said, finally. "So, it doesn't matter how Brother Victor obtained his supply of Quebecois Dark for the Abbey. It's really none of my business."

"Exactly," Meg said.

"And," he added, stiffly, "I have made a complete fool of myself tonight."

"Yes," she said, though not unkindly.

Ray patted him on the back with one hand as he continued to pick at the pan with the other.

Brother Victor poked his head into the kitchen. "May I come in?"

"Yes, of course," Meg said, getting to her feet. "We're sorry for taking over your kitchen."

Ray and Fraser started to rise, but he motioned for them all to sit. "It is nice to have the company," he said, then smiling at Meg, "especially feminine company." He went to the oven and removed a smaller tray. He scooped three servings of bread pudding into bowls, spooned cream on top, and set them on the table. "Please," he urged them.

Meg and Ray dug in eagerly, but Fraser demurred, placing a hand over his stomach.

Brother Victor nodded, sympathetically. "Tea, then," he said, and poured a cup for Fraser, who gratefully accepted it. He brought the pot to the table and served Ray and Meg. He took the pudding that Fraser refused for himself.

Meg had never tasted the like. Warm, custardy, with a perfect blend of tart and sweet apples, cinnamon and other spices she couldn't identify. It was out of this world. She told him so.

Ray sat back and patted his stomach. "I'm gonna miss you, Brother Victor, when we leave."

Victor slapped his forehead. "I nearly forgot. I have something to give you." He smiled at Ray. "For your mother." He pushed himself to his feet and patted Ray's arm. "I require your assistance, young man, if you will."

"Sure," he said, getting to his feet.

As Fraser started to rise, Victor patted his shoulder. "You rest. We will manage." He opened his mouth to protest, purely in reflex. But, his legs felt like rubber. He sat down, without speaking.

Victor led Ray to the far end of the kitchen, where they disappeared from sight down a descending flight of stairs.

In their absence, quiet descended but for the sipping of tea, until Fraser finally broke it. "I'm sorry, sir. For my behavior tonight," he began. "I – "

Meg interrupted him. "You're not yet fully recovered, Constable. We'll say no more about it."

"Thank you, sir." He sipped his tea carefully, but his stomach seemed to be behaving itself now. He was unaccustomed to exercising caution in running or standing or tea-drinking. Brother Nathaniel had instructed him to be patient. Fraser was an extraordinarily patient man. About everything but himself. Weakness in mind and body was something he strived to overcome, not indulge. Case in point - he was having difficulty accepting that he had been on a wild goose chase all this time. He had been so sure that the syrup had been stolen. His feelings, however, shouldn't enter the equation. Facts were facts. Besides, he should be pleased that the nation's maple syrup supply was unmolested.

Meg studied him over the rim of her cup. The sickly cast to his skin was gone, but he was still pale and drawn. It unsettled her. Fraser usually radiated such vitality. Even on sentry duty, when he didn't move a muscle for hours, he wasn't this subdued.

"You should be pleased, Constable."

"Yes, sir." He didn't look pleased. He looked ... troubled.

"But?" she prompted

He didn't answer right away. "But," he said at last, "Ray is facing charges, possible imprisonment. Two men are dead, because of me. And Brother Victor ..." he looked down at his feet. "I believe that Jean Renoir was his cousin, sir." At her questioning look, he added, "They had the same grandmother."

Meg couldn't think of anything to say to that, except platitudes, so she sipped her tea. But, as the awkward silence stretched, she realized that she had a responsibility here. She was his commanding officer. It was her duty to help her junior officer come to grips with the consequences of his actions.

"Fraser," she said, gently. "No one else in the world would have done what you did, following the maple syrup from a stack of pancakes in a Chicago café to here. You stuck to it, despite all the obstacles and the skeptics. Myself included," she admitted.

"In the course of your investigation, you saved one young man's life and solved the murders of his two friends, as well as the murders of their killers. You stood by Detective Vecchio when he was trapped on the barge, managed to alert me and the Chicago Police Department about Frank Nardo's operations, and traced the drugs and alcohol and syrup back to their source in Quebec. You are responsible for shutting down a major smuggling ring spanning two countries and several years, saving my life and Detective Vecchio's in the process. No one else could have done that. No one else would even _try. _The fact that the maple syrup is incidental doesn't change that." She took a breath. "You should be proud."

He stared at her, at a complete loss for words.

"I am," she added.

"You are?"

"Yes."

He frowned. "Just to clarify, sir. Do you mean, of me?"

"Yes," she retorted. "Don't push it, Fraser."

His lips quirked. "Thank you, kindly, sir."

They sipped their tea in silence again, though it was now a more companionable one. Fraser set his cup on the table. He looked like he was going to say something, then he hastily picked up the cup again. After the fifth time he did this, she said, in exasperation, "Is something bothering you, Fraser?"

"I wouldn't say 'bother' sir. Perplex would be a better word. Or, maybe -"

"Spit it out, Constable."

"Sir, as you know, we have worked together for some time, now," He hesitated, wondering whether this was the concussion talking, but forged ahead, anyway. "And I had hoped ... " He stopped, rubbing his forehead. "I know I was no help down in the tunnel. In fact, I was a burden to you."

"Couldn't be helped, Constable," she said, brusquely.

"Yes, sir. But I was beginning to ..." he stopped. "That is, as your deputy, I was starting to see our relationship ... " He paused. "What I mean to say is we, that is, you and I, as a team - "

"Fraser!" she said, impatiently.

He blurted, "Is there something you want to tell me now, sir? Now, that I'm conscious? Something that you ... shared ... with Ray in the tunnels?"

She felt a flush begin to creep up her neck. "I don't know what you mean, Constable."

"I'm sorry, sir," he cleared his throat. "I understand you had to turn to Ray-"

"Those were exigent circumstances, Fraser," she said. "Quite dire."

"Yes, sir."

"We thought we were going to die. You can't hold that against us."

"I don't, sir," he protested. "In fact, I'm glad that Ray was there. To stand in for me, so to speak."

"Yes," she said, then ventured, "To be honest, I would have preferred that it _was_ you, Fraser." The blush was full blown now. She resisted the urge to fan her face.

He looked gratified. "So do I, sir." He added, "But, the 'exigent circumstances' are over and I'm no longer unconscious." He drew himself up in his chair, remembering her words of praise. Ray was always telling him to stand up for himself, to ask directly when he wanted something. Perhaps, it was time to take his advice. "And, if I may be so bold, sir, I think I may be ... uh ... entitled."

"Entitled?"

"Yes, sir," he said, reddening. "I don't wish to be immodest, but I feel ... I mean if you agreed, of course, that ... perhaps ... I've earned it?"

"Earned it!" She bristled. "You think you're entitled and you've earned it?"

He swallowed. His resolve faltered at her reaction, but in for a penny... "Y-yes, sir. I am discreet." He looked around the empty kitchen. "Now, might be a good time."

"Here?" she gaped at him.

He leaned in close. "Before they come back."

She pulled away from him, so agitated, that she actually spluttered, "You are so ... so ... so ... out of line, mister! I wouldn't ... not ... not if you were the last man on earth!"

He recoiled as if she had struck him. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, "B-but, you told Ray! And he's not your deputy!" He added, "He's not even Canadian!"

"I thought we were going to die! Besides, it didn't mean any –" she stopped abruptly. "_Told _Ray? Told Ray what?"

"You told Ray the location of the Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve. I thought you could tell me, now that ... well, after what you said -" He stilled, actually listening to the words coming out of his mouth. He sounded like a jealous child, who felt slighted for being excluded from a schoolyard game. For the second time in one evening, he had made a complete and utter fool of himself. He closed his eyes and rubbed his throbbing temples. He said, flatly, "Sir, may I be dismissed? As you pointed out, it is obvious that I belong in bed."

She didn't hear that last part, so vast was her relief. "That was need to know, Fraser," she said, dismissively. "It didn't mean anything."

That didn't make him feel better. "So ... _I_ don't need to know."

"No, Constable, you don't," she said, sharply. Then, relenting, "I only told Ray because it seemed necessary at that time. As it turned out, it wasn't." She added, in consolation, "If you had been awake, I would have told you."

"Oh," he said, slightly mollified. But, only slightly. "And ... you _won't_ tell me, now."

"It's classified. And there is no need to know. Not anymore." She frowned. "End of discussion, Constable."

"Yes, sir," he said, defeated. He picked up his teacup and sipped.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Brother Victor flipped a light switch illuminating the sub-basement that the Abbey used as a pantry. Ray was impressed. Shelves, two deep, lined every wall. Neatly labeled jars and bottles contained home-canned fruits, vegetables, jams, honey, and other delicious things. Burlap bags stamped "rice," "barley," and "lentils" were neatly stacked in a corner. Bins of root vegetables lined the walls. The room was full to capacity.

Victor took three clean empty mason jars and lids from a box on a shelf and handed them to Ray. He led him through the maze to another door on the other side of the pantry. Ray gawked at it. It was the same type of steel security door that Brother Charles had opened in response to Ray's pounding. But this door was polished and oiled. And the push bar to open the door was on this side.

It disoriented Ray. He swung around, trying to get his bearings. "Which way is the brewery?" he asked.

"Down the hall opposite my kitchen," Victor said, pushing open the door. He flipped another light switch inside. "I opened this up myself a year ago," he explained. "I needed somewhere to hang my hams undisturbed. Too many people come and go back there."

Deja vu. Ray stepped into a room the exact size and shape of the smugglers cache and the room under the brewery where Antoine and Emile had nearly killed them. Except, this thirty by thirty room was brightly lit and immaculately clean. Scrubbed-looking. No dirt on the concrete floor, the walls sporting a fresh coat of paint. Hams hung from hooks on the ceilings. The room was square, just like the others. It opened to a corridor on the far end, just like the others. It seemed that the enterprising Victor had put one of the old NORAD tunnels to culinary use.

The cook strode to a blue plastic drum in the corner of the room. Sealed in a plastic bag on top of the drum was a stainless steel soup ladle and funnel. Victor handed those to Ray. Then, with a grunt, he pried off the lid of the barrel and carefully set it aside.

Ray smelled the sweet scent of maple syrup that wafted up from the drum. He peered into it. The barrel was nearly empty, but he could see there was liquid at the bottom.

"The Quebecois Dark?" he asked.

"Oui," said Victor, leaning down into the barrel with the ladle. Ray held the funnel, while the chef ladled the golden brown liquid into the jars. He screwed the lids on tight, before replacing the top on the drum. Ray noticed that there were no labels and no identifiers on the blue barrel.

He wrinkled his brow. Fraser might think it too nosy, but he wasn't raised Vecchio. "Brother Victor, if you don't mind me asking, where did this come from?"

"The family farm," he said, proudly. "My grand-pere planted the trees over seventy five years ago."

"Ah," Ray said. "That explains everything."

"It does?" Victor said, puzzled. "I am glad." He picked up the jars of the finest maple syrup in the world and handed them to Ray. "For your mother," he said. "And for your friends."

"Oh, no," Ray protested at the very generous gifts. "We can't. It's too much."

"Non, I insist." He smiled. "Something to remember us by when you are back in America."

"But, you're almost out of it," Ray said, gesturing to the nearly empty barrel.

Brother Victor laughed and elbowed him in the ribs. "Very funny, Ray! You know there is plenty where that came from."

He pointed casually to the opening to the corridor. Curious, Ray took a look. While the dimensions were the same as the other tunnels Ray had seen, this one was antiseptically clean. Not that he noticed that. He gaped, open-mouthed, nearly dropping the mason jars. He stared at Brother Victor, who beamed at him. Then, Ray walked back to the open steel door in a daze. When he got to the stairs, he had to swallow twice before he found his voice. He yelled up into the kitchen:

"FRASER! GET THE HELL DOWN HERE! FRASER!"

He set the jars on a shelf and returned to the corridor where he had left Victor. The cook stared at him, shocked at his outburst. Ray rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Still there.

Meg called from the pantry room. "Ray? Where are you?"

"In here," he answered. "Fraser with you?"

"He's coming." Then, she barked, "Fraser, take it slow on those stairs! That's an order!" In a few minutes, Meg and Fraser entered the square room with the nearly empty barrel of Quebecois Dark in the corner. Ray silently motioned them over. They wove their way through the hams.

Meg was testy, getting up in his face. "What are you on about, bellowing like a bull! This is a monastery, Detective, not a sports arena!"

Ray grabbed her shoulders and spun her around so she faced the long corridor. She gasped. Fraser, peering over her shoulder, staggered in shock. Ray reached out and steadied him.

Stunned, they turned as one and stared at the chef. Victor looked back at them. He was surprised and puzzled at their reactions.

Fraser broke the silence. "What is this, Brother Victor?"

"I ... I thought you'd know," he said, uncertainly. "You are government officials, after all. And, when you were talking just now, in my kitchen." He put a finger alongside his nose and tapped it. "Maple syrup and red herrings." He chuckled. "You can't fool me! I know a code when I hear one!"

As they continued to look baffled, his expression turned sheepish. "Ah, well. Perhaps, I have let the little cat out of the bag." He gestured broadly to the multitude of blue barrels, stacked three deep as far as the eye could see. He made a little bow. "Welcome to the Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve." He smiled proudly.

Meg and Ray looked at each other in stunned silence. Was the Fleming Manufacturing Company cover story just another bit of disinformation? A wheels-within-wheels intricacy that was part of its security protocols? Was the Federation hiding their treasure, literally buried treasure, in the old NORAD tunnels as a double-blind? Meg looked around. If it was, this was criminally negligent. There was no security in place. None at all. The barrels - hundreds of them - were just sitting here.

"How do you know that, sir?" Fraser asked, gently. "The location of the Reserve is top secret."

Victor looked abashed. "My cousin let it slip, I'm afraid. He is the head of the Strategic Reserve," he said, proudly.

Meg reacted. "But, that's not true. The head of the Strategic Reserve is a woman. Catherine Mimieux."

"What is your cousin's name?" Fraser asked.

"Francois. Francois D'orleans." As Ray and Fraser exchanged looks at the name, Brother Victor looked troubled. "But I'm sure that is what he told me." He smiled suddenly, tapping his nose again. "But, of course. It is hush-hush. The fact that he is the top man is top secret." He pointed at the barrels and said, "Otherwise, if Francois is not the head of the Reserve, then where did all of that come from?"

"Where, indeed?" said Fraser, looking pointedly at Ray and Meg.

They exchanged glances, then she darted a guilty look at her junior officer.

For a few moments, Fraser struggled mightily to keep control of his emotions and impulses. When he spoke, there was no trace of crowing, sarcasm, or impertinence in his voice. "Perhaps, sir," he said, respectfully, "I am now on a need to know basis." His control slipped slightly as a smile quirked his lips for a nanosecond, and then was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Meg sat in a straight-backed wooden chair against the wall of the small parlor in the Abbey. The cozy room was quite changed. The little round table where she took her meals was gone, as was much of the other furniture. A long rectangular table was set up, tribunal-style, though this wasn't a legal proceeding. At the middle of the table, sat Catherine Mimieux, the President of the Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers (aka the Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve), and on her left, her Vice President. Filling in the rest of the seats, were the Minister of Commerce, the law enforcement trio - the chiefs of the Surete, the OPP and RCMP - and Brian Forbes, Member of Parliament. These six men and one woman were arrayed on one side of the long table, looking out on the man on the other side.

Fraser, garbed in the brown woolen robe of the Order, sat facing the panel of VIPs. From her perch along the wall, Meg kept a weather eye on him, but he seemed his usual professional self, as he led the officials coherently through the narrative of the Great Northern Maple Syrup Adventure. At least, that's what she had begun to call it, in the privacy of her thoughts.

In the two days since Ray Vecchio had discovered three milliondollars worth of maple syrup stashed in the old NORAD tunnel under the Abbey's kitchen pantry, Fraser's medical condition had improved markedly. Still, she had forced him to be honest with her this morning, before she would allow him to participate in this high level meeting. His tiny room had been crowded with her, Fraser, Brother Nathaniel and his medical paraphernalia.

"I'm fine, sir," he said, as Brother Nathaniel removed the blood pressure cuff from his left arm.

"Benton, remember what we talked about," the doctor admonished, with a stern look.

Fraser looked guilty, then started again. "I'm ... better, sir." At Nathaniel's approving nod, he continued. "I still have a headache, but it's tolerable. My right arm and shoulder are ... uncomfortable, but improving. Except for a tendency to tire easily, I otherwise feel ... normal." He added, with a twinkle, "that is, normal for me."

Nathaniel interjected, "Make sure he gets a chair with a cushion." Then added, "For where he got shot in the can." He chuckled at Ray's joke.

Meg smiled wanly. That joke had gotten old, real fast, and she was too anxious to appreciate a rerun of it now. As he continued with his examination, she said, "I want to be sure you're up to this, Fraser. These are very important people."

"I am, sir," he said, with all the confidence one can muster with an otoscope poking in one's ear.

"Well?" she said, looking at Nathaniel.

He nodded. "Make sure he sits. I meant it about the padded chair. Don't let him overdo."

In the parlor, Meg realized with a start that she had let her mind wander away

from Fraser's narrative. She tuned back in.

He was looking fixedly at President Mimieux. From Fraser's perspective, there were eight people at the table, not counting himself. To the left of MP Forbes, Sergeant Robert Fraser sat in full dress uniform, studying a pile of papers in front of him. His father was behaving himself thus far, but Fraser avoided looking at him. He didn't need any distractions. He had been at this for two hours, now.

He responded to a question put to him by President Mimieux. "To answer your question, ma'am, we had encountered the gentleman before. Detective Vecchio and I had temporarily subdued him and two other men on the barge as they were unloading the contraband at the dock at what we now know is Lake Nipissing. Although, we had confiscated his driver's license at that time, Detective Vecchio and I were not then in a position to take prisoners." He took a breath. "We saw him again at Jake's Café on Highway 63. He was a passenger in a large cargo truck that was pulling away from a fuel pump."

"At that point, you were standing at a public telephone, Fraser. Why didn't you call the Surete then?" This question was from Brian Forbes, MP.

"I knew that it would be some time before the Surete would be able to respond to such a remote location, sir. Even in the time it would take to place the call, the truck would have been gone. I thought it important to ascertain the destination of the contraband. The only way to do that was to stay with it."

"More important than reporting the four dead bodies you and Vecchio left in Ontario?" Forbes said, with a glance at the chief of the OPP.

Fraser paused. "Yes, sir. The men were dead. Nothing more could be done for them. I realize that this delayed the recovery of the bodies and notification of next of kin by another twenty four hours, and I deeply regret that. But, in the circumstances, I judged it more important to stay with the drugs and weapons."

The chief superintendent of the RCMP, John Foster, spoke up. "You stuck with the little fish in hopes of netting the bigger one?"

"In part, sir," he replied. "At that time, it seemed most important that we not let the drugs and weapons get to their destination, untracked, to be disseminated from there."

"Quite right, quite right," said the Surete head, Marcel Proust. "We all know that shutting down these operations at the highest level is the ultimate goal. Too many of the small fry clutter up our courts and prisons, while the sharks swim away."

"How did you know that the truck at Jake's Cafe, a truck which you admit you never saw before, was, in actuality, carrying the arms and drugs from Chicago?" That was Forbes again.

"I didn't know when I boarded the truck, sir. Detective Vecchio had a hunch, when he spotted Francois D'orleans in the cab of the vehicle. He acted upon it. I followed his lead."

"A hunch?" Forbes said, raising his eyebrows. "Do you usually base your actions in a criminal investigation on your hunches, Constable?"

"No, sir. I rarely have hunches," he said, honestly. "But, Detective Vecchio's hunches, I would ... I believe the expression is ... 'take to the bank'."

A ripple of laughter went through the law enforcement trio.

"Go on, Constable," the President said, when it died down.

"Yes, ma'am. Once Detective Vecchio and I were aboard the truck, I recognized the contents of the barge."

Forbes again. "Surely, one box or crate looks much like another?" he said, skeptically.

"Sir, I had been traveling on the barge among those particular boxes and crates from Chicago to Ontario. In fact, I lived in one of the big ones for three days with another man," he said, without any trace of humor. Nevertheless, there was another wave of amusement around the table. "Detective Vecchio had marked that crate with a knife while we were on the barge. I saw those same marks on the crate in the back of the truck."

"Go on, Constable," the President said.

"Yes, ma'am. Once the truck arrived at the Depardieu Northwest Distribution Center approximately eight hours later, Detective Vecchio and I were able to observe Francois D'orleans personally supervise its unloading. He and the men he directed dismantled the crates, separated the canned goods from the contraband, stacked the innocuous contents above-ground in the garage, and stored the drugs and weapons in the hidden room under the floor."

"I believe this is what has been referred to as the ... uh ... 'smugglers cache'?"

"Yes, ma'am. We learned later that Depardieu had modified the underground room left behind in the decommissioning, adding the stairs and secret entrance for this purpose."

Forbes said, drily, "Smugglers cache, smugglers cove ... you take poetic license, Constable."

"No, sir. I was merely endeavoring to be descriptive."

Chief Superintendent Foster said, "When did you see Francois D'orleans again, Constable?"

"Two days ago, sir."

"He was not involved in the melee at the Depardieu Distribution Center on the 8th?"

"I can't say, sir. I didn't see him again at the Distribution Center after the truck was unloaded." He rubbed his forehead. "He and the crew who unloaded the truck mentioned going for coffee. Detective Vecchio and I waited for them to leave Garage #5 before we climbed down from the rafters. From there, Detective Vecchio and I temporarily parted ways, as I had stated previously."

"Yes," she said, looking down at the papers in front of her. "You were both quite busy."

"I learned later from Officer Truffaut that Francois D'orleans was not one of those detained in the mass arrest at the Distribution Center four days ago."

"So, he got away." Forbes again.

"Yes, sir," Fraser agreed. "In his initial statement to the Surete, Detective Vecchio had reported Mr. D'orleans' actions at the cove, on the truck, and at the warehouse, and turned over the driver's licenses we had confiscated, to Officer Truffaut. An arrest warrant was immediately issued for Mr. D'orleans based on that sworn statement, but the suspect could not be found."

The MP rustled through the stack of papers in front of him. "That would be on March 8th. I don't see a statement from you on that date."

"No, sir. I was ... indisposed. My statement was taken two days later by Lieutenant Latourette of the Montreal office."

"All right, Constable," Foster cut in. "I think we're following you. When did you next see this man?"

"Yes, sir. Two days ago, after Detective Vecchio noticed a large supply of barrels in the tunnel under the Abbey's kitchen pantry, we –"

The Minister of Commerce snorted, "A large supply! There were over two thousand barrels down there."

"Yes, sir."

"You have a talent for understatement, son."

Fraser blinked. "Yes, sir."

He waved his hand. "Sorry, go on."

"After discovering the ... _very_ large supply of barrels, Inspector Thatcher, Detective Vecchio and I explored the tunnel. After proceeding east approximately one thousand feet, we discovered a point of ingress." He paused, cocking his head slightly. "Or egress, depending on one's orientation. We discovered a steel security door, which could only be opened from the other side. We had learned that these doors had been installed in 1975 when the site was decommissioned and the government land subdivided for private sale. Apparently, filling in the tunnels was considered cost-prohibitive at that time."

"Budget cuts," the Minister muttered.

"Yes, sir. We secured the door –"

"How?"

"We stacked several of the nearest barrels in front of it, creating a barricade. While not impregnable, it made opening the door from the other side difficult. It was when we moved the barrels, that Inspector Thatcher, Detective Vecchio and I discovered Francois D'orleans asleep behind them." He paused. "I'm afraid we startled him."

"We identified ourselves as police officers and Mr. D'orleans surrendered without a struggle. He had been hiding there, in the tunnel, since the raid on the Depardieu facility two days before. At that point, we searched the area and determined that no one else was hiding among the barrels. We returned to the Abbey with our prisoner. Detective Vecchio remained on guard at the steel door in the Abbey's pantry, while the Inspector and I escorted the prisoner upstairs. We alerted the Abbot, Brother Adrien. Then, the Inspector telephoned Officer Truffaut and advised that we had Mr. D'orleans in custody. We turned the prisoner over to him upon his arrival at the Abbey."

The President leaned forward, fixing him with an intense gaze. "This is very important, Constable. Did you tell any of the local Surete officers or any of the monks about finding the maple syrup in the underground tunnel?"

"No, ma'am."

She looked dubious. "No one?"

He elaborated. "Detective Vecchio and I had previously given statements to the Surete which were the basis of the arrest warrant for Mr. D'orleans. We told Officer Truffaut and the Abbot merely that we had discovered the suspect hiding on Abbey property." He looked uncomfortable.

Thatcher interjected. "I advised Constable Fraser and Detective Vecchio not to volunteer that information. As we know, the locations of the Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve –"

The Vice President of the consortium, Philippe Forquet, spoke for the first time, "Actually, we prefer Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers."

She nodded. "The location of the maple syrup held by the Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers is classified. I thought it prudent not to reveal the discovery in the tunnels until I had sought guidance from a higher authority."

The Minister of Commerce frowned. "What about this Antoine Depardieu? He must have known."

Fraser shook his head. "Strange as it may seem, sir, Mr. Depardieu knew nothing about the Reserve being housed in the warehouses at the Fleming Manufacturing Company. Nor had he any knowledge that one of his employees had engineered the theft from the Reserve and stored the barrels of syrup in the tunnel under the Abbey grounds."

"I find that hard to credit."

"Yes, sir. So did I." Fraser smiled briefly. "Mr. Depardieu purchased a small quantity - twenty barrels in total - from his employee, Francois D'orleans. He knew the D'orleans family farm produced premium maple syrup. According to Mr. D'orleans, Mr. Depardieu thought he was buying the maple syrup directly from the farm, in defiance of the law. He considered it a petty infraction. Not one that was likely to be noticed by the authorities." Fraser added. "I understand that it is not an uncommon practice in the province."

The Vice President made a noise. "They call them scofflaws."

"Yes, sir." Fraser continued, "In reality, that maple syrup was sold by Mr. D'orleans to Mr. Depardieu, without the knowledge of his co-conspirators, from the supply that they had already stolen from the Reserve."

"Why?"

"Greed," he said, simply.

President Mimieux said, "But, I thought they were idealists who believed in a higher purpose," she looked down at her notes, "that they were freedom fighters 'liberating the syrup from an illegal cartel.'"

"I believe that is true for the rest of the group," Fraser acknowledged. "But, Mr. D'orleans could not resist the temptation to line his own pocket while currying favor with his employer."

"And he never told Depardieu where the syrup really came from?"

"No, ma'am," he confirmed.

"And you believe this thief?" Forbes said.

"Yes sir, I do," Fraser replied. "I believe Antoine Depardieu would never have risked drawing attention to his own nearby illegal activities by sanctioning or condoning, however implicitly, the theft at the Reserve." He paused. "If he had known, I think he would have put a stop to it, for that reason."

Foster said, "And yet, it was this very maple syrup which Depardieu sent to Chicago as a gift for his brother-in-law that started your investigation and led to the discovery of the theft at the Reserve, as well as the drugs and guns operation." He shook his head, wonderingly. "What an amazing coincidence!"

"Yes, sir."

"It is a strange world that we live in."

"Yes, sir."

"What about the monk, the one that's the cook?" the Minister asked.

"Brother Victor isn't a monk," Fraser corrected, automatically.

"Eh?"

"He's a lay brother."

"What's the difference?"

"He hasn't taken vows, sir."

"Vows?"

Fraser explained, "All of the monks here at the Abbey have taken vows of obedience, poverty, and chastity."

The Surete chief frowned, "Chastity? What does that mean, exactly?"

Fraser colored slightly, "Celibacy, sir."

The Minister said, impatiently, "I don't care about his sex life, or lack thereof, I want to know if he'll talk about this?"

Fraser looked earnestly at him. "Brother Victor is an honorable man, sir. And very concerned about his cousin, Francois D'orleans. He has given me his word that he will not speak of this discovery until and unless I advise him to do so."

"And do you believe him?"

"Yes, sir. He has given his word."

Forbes said, skeptically, "And no one else from the monastery knows of all that maple syrup down in the tunnel?"

"No, sir. I don't believe so. Brother Victor is the only one of the brothers to venture into the tunnels. Well, except for Brother Charles who came to our rescue, but that was a different tunnel, on the opposite side of the Abbey, which had not been used in twenty years." He added. "As you know, the barrels are being retrieved by the Reserve using the entrance at the other end of the tunnel, not the entrance from the Abbey pantry. The pantry entrance has now been secured. The brethren here believe that all the activity, including this meeting, is solely related to the drugs and weapons investigation."

"It's like a warren down there," the Minister commented, peering at a sketch of the tunnel system.

"Yes, sir. The tunnels are quite extensive, as we now know." He continued. "Brother Victor opened the steel door in the Abbey pantry on his own initiative, and was using the room he discovered to hang his hams. He is very particular about his hams. No one is allowed near them." He leaned forward. "Brother Victor is a very trusting individual. Or perhaps, it is more accurate to say, that he is a very trustworthy individual and cannot conceive of the lack of that quality in someone he loves."

"So, you believe he was not involved in this conspiracy of the - what did they call themselves?"

"The Sweet Libertarians, sir. The play on words takes into account their political philosophy as well as the maple –"

"Yes, I got that, Constable," he said, sourly. "Do you believe the cook was involved in their conspiracy?"

"No, sir," Fraser said, emphatically. "Brother Victor is innocent of any wrongdoing, as evidenced by his lack of guile in revealing the maple syrup 'Reserve' to Detective Vecchio. Fourteen months ago, when he discovered that his cousin and his accomplices, the Sweet Libertarians, were using the tunnel to store the barrels of stolen syrup, he believed the lie that Francois told him. That Francois had your job, ma'am," he nodded at the President, "by top secret appointment, and that this secret, along with the location of the Reserve, must be kept absolutely confidential. Victor believed that it was his duty to keep that confidence - a moral, familial, and patriotic duty."

"And what about the American?" Forquet asked.

"Sir?"

"Does Vecchio believe that it his duty to keep silent about what he found in the tunnels?"

"No, sir. He doesn't." He added. "And neither do I."

"Fraser!" Meg exclaimed as the room erupted. The President called for quiet and it settled down. She said, anxiously, "I understood, Constable, that you had agreed to keep silent on the matter. If that is not the case –"

"Pardon me, ma'am, but that wasn't the question that the Vice President asked me."

"Eh?" he said. "Yes, I did."

"No, sir. With respect, you asked about duty." Fraser sat up straighter in his chair. "I don't believe it is my _duty_ to keep silent that, in an act of misguided civil disobedience, three million dollars' worth of maple syrup entrusted to the Federation was siphoned from full barrels in the warehouse into empty barrels in the tunnel below; or that the Federation's auditors counted the barrels in the warehouse accurately during three recent audits, yet failed to discern that half of them were empty and left standing in place. Nor, do I believe that I have a _duty_ to keep silent when an American detective discovered the massive theft just days before the perpetrators planned to remove the barrels from the tunnels."

All eyes were riveted upon him. He said, earnestly. "It is not my _duty_, ma'am, sirs. It is my _choice. _I choose to keep silent because I believe that doing so will serve the greater good."

"I see," the Minister said, after a moment. "And how will Detective Vecchio exercise _his_ choice?"

"He, too, will remain silent."

Everyone sat back in their chairs, relieved. Except Forbes. He said, "So,

you'll graciously allow this mess to be swept under the rug? This time." The other members of the panel stared at him, surprised at his contemptuous tone.

Bob Fraser frowned at the MP. "I think he's talking about me, son!"

Leaning back in his chair, Forbes looked down his nose at Fraser. He smirked. "I'm glad to see you've changed, Constable. Must be the company you've been keeping down south."

Fraser looked at him for a long moment. "No, sir."

"What?"

"With respect, I disagree that this is a case of 'sweeping the mess under the rug.' That implies a coverup of a wrong, without the occurrence of remedial action or positive consequences." Fraser leaned forward in his chair as he addressed the whole panel.

"No lasting harm has been done to the maple syrup stores. Arguably, the conspirators have done the Federation a favor by revealing the weaknesses in your security protocols for you." He looked at the President. "Weaknesses which you are even now taking steps to address, ma'am. Furthermore, the agreement that the Federation will not prosecute the Sweet Libertarians, while self-serving, also spares generally law-abiding citizens with a grievance from criminal prosecution. In exchange, those citizens have renounced their misguided actions and have agreed to work within the law, in future."

"Justice will be served by prosecuting Francois D'orleans for his involvement in the arms and drug dealing operation. He is cooperating with the authorities and has agreed to testify against Antoine Depardieu and his smuggling ring. Brother Victor and his naivete will remain a private matter. And the brothers of the Abbey of Sainte-Jean-Baptiste will be spared the notoriety and media attention that would come with public disclosure."

"On a broader level, the economy of Quebec and the nation at large will not be damaged by revealing the thwarted conspiracy to steal the maple syrup, one of the most important commodities produced in Canada." He paused. "More than a commodity. A part of our national identity."

He looked directly at Forbes now. "But, you are right on one point, sir. The company I've been keeping down south _has_ changed me." He lifted his chin. "For the better."

Forbes' jaw clenched, but he didn't say anything.

"Hear, hear, son," Bob said.

Fraser met Meg's gaze. He smiled without smiling in that way he had. She knew with a certainty that she was included in the southern company he kept. She ducked her head, not trusting her face at that moment.

There was silence in the room. After a moment, the President asked, "Are there any other questions for Constable Fraser? No?" She turned to him and smiled warmly. "Thank you, Constable."

"You're welcome, ma'am."

"Would you escort Detective Vecchio to the meeting, please?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, getting to his feet. Meg noticed he held on to the back of the padded chair for an extra moment or two before walking stiffly out of the room. The VIPs buzzed among themselves as he pulled the door closed.

He found Ray in the kitchen, bent over the butcher block table. Fraser's eyebrows climbed into his scalp as he saw Ray was wearing a big white apron over his brown robe, and piping frosting on to little cakes arranged on a tray. His concentration was absolute. Fraser waited until he was finished before calling his name. Never startle a man with a loaded gun or pastry bag in his hand.

Ray spun, then looked sheepishly at his friend. He gestured down at himself. "Some getup, huh?" Without waiting for a reply, he set the pastry bag down carefully on the table, and untied the apron.

Brother Victor approached with a laden tray in his hands. Fraser unburdened him, put the tray in the dumbwaiter, and pushed the button for its ascent. Victor peered worriedly into his face. "How does it go up there, Benton?"

Fraser patted his arm in reassurance. "I think it is going well." He turned to Ray. "They're ready for you."

Ray smoothed his hair nervously, then nodded. As he followed Fraser up the stairs, he said, "I couldn't take the waiting anymore, Benny. Thought I'd make myself useful."

"I understand, Ray." He ushered him into the parlor. The VIPs stopped talking suddenly, turning as one when the door opened. Ray took in the array of bigwigs arranged like a kangaroo court and hesitated before following Fraser to the big table. From a chair against the wall, Meg flashed him the briefest of smiles and Ray felt a little better. Fraser introduced him to the panel.

"Please sit down, Detective," the President said, motioning to the chair that Fraser had vacated.

"Thanks," he said. He had to clear his dry throat and repeat it.

Fraser unobtrusively took a spot against the wall by the door, where he stood at attention. He wasn't leaving unless ordered to do so.

The President adjusted the half glasses on her nose and peered through them at Ray. "There's nothing to be nervous about, Detective. You're not on trial here."

Not yet, Ray thought. "Uh, no, ma'am," he said. Then, louder, "I'm not nervous." He relaxed in the chair, and assumed a confidence he did not feel. "I'm just not much for small talk. I'm ready. Fire away."

The law enforcement chiefs hid their amusement at his bravado. The President smiled, gently. "Inspector Thatcher and Constable Fraser have been very thorough in their presentations. We don't have any questions for you, Detective."

Ray was astonished. "You don't?"

She shook her head, slightly. "No." She paused. "Well, maybe just one."

He leaned toward her. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Tell me ... what address should we use to send the lifetime supply of maple syrup?"

He gawked at her, then stammered his address. She wrote it down carefully. "Is that zip code 60601?"

"Y-yes, ma'am."

"Thank you, Detective."

Ray rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I don't understand what's going on here," he admitted.

She smiled, warmly. "On behalf of the Global Strategic Maple –"

Her Vice President interrupted, "You mean, the Federation of –"

"Oh, give it a rest, Philippe," she said, in annoyance. "That's what everybody calls it." He sat back, chastened.

She continued, "Detective Vecchio. On behalf of the Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve, I would like to thank you for your actions in this matter." She glanced at Fraser. "And for your choices." She paused, then added. "Constable Fraser has advised us that you have agreed to keep the matter of the breach of security at the Reserve completely confidential."

Ray shrugged. "Sure. It seems like the best thing for everybody."

"We're grateful. The maple syrup is a mere token of that gratitude." The Vice President was nodding vigorously beside her.

Ray peered at her. "Does that mean I'll be home to enjoy it?"

The President looked pointedly at the law enforcement trio at the table.

The chief of the Surete harrumphed a bit, shuffled papers, then said, "You are released from house arrest, effective immediately. The Surete du Quebec thanks you for your assistance throughout this entire affair." He managed a respectful bow from a sitting position.

The chief of the Ontario Provincial Police added, "That goes double for the OPP. No charges will be brought in my province. On behalf of my department, I thank you for your service." He paused. "And, let me add my personal thanks. I have a summer cottage on Lake Nipissing, Detective. Not far from that cove. My grandchildren visit every summer." He shook his head, dolefully.

The chief superintendent of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police glanced at Brian Forbes, before leaning forward. He picked up a piece of paper from the table and studied it carefully before speaking. "Over the last few days, I have had quite a number of telephone calls from Chicago, Detective. Your Lieutenant is quite persistent."

Ray snorted, then straightened respectfully. "Uh, yes, sir. He is, sir."

"He faxed this to me today." He handed the paper to Ray who quickly scanned it. "Your status as a member of the International Joint Task Force of the Canadian Consulate and the Chicago Police Department has been duly noted. Thank you, Detective, for all you've done." He turned to the man on his left. "Brian, do you have anything to add?"

Forbes grunted in the negative.

Ray sat there, unable to process. He looked down at his "get out of jail free card," then back up at the panel. "That's it?"

The President nodded. "That's it." She looked around at her colleagues. "If there's nothing further ...? Then, we're adjourned." She glanced at her watch. "Lunch will be in this room in twenty minutes. Courtesy of Brother Victor."

Ray sat in a daze as the panel gathered up their papers and belongings and exited the room. Meg came over to him.

"Are you all right, Detective?"

He looked up at her, guessing that the "duration" had ended at last. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. It was over and they had endured. He grinned up at her. "I'm fine, Inspector. Just fine." He looked over his shoulder. "Where'd Fraser go?"

She followed his gaze. "I don't know."

Young Brother Matthew was at his elbow. "Excuse me, Brother Ray, but we have to set up for luncheon."

"Oh, sure," he said, pushing himself to his feet. There were a couple of other brown-robed figures behind him carrying table linens and dishes.

"We'll get out of your way," Meg said, with a warm smile that made the young monk blush. She felt wonderful. She wanted to smile at everybody. Everybody, that is, except Brian Forbes. She took a deep breath and straightened her face.

Ray grinned as she tamped down the unbearable lightness of being and put on the professional mask of Inspector Margaret Thatcher, RCMP. There was still a twinkle in her eye, if you knew where to look. He knew exactly how she felt. They headed for the door together, walking on air.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Moments before, Fraser had held the door for the departing VIPs as they exited the parlor at the conclusion of the meeting. The last one through had been Brian Forbes, MP.

"Sir?"

Forbes kept walking.

"Sir, may I speak to you? Sir?" Fraser called, as he followed Forbes through the door. In the hall, the members of the panel milled about. Monks were moving the furniture back in to the parlor. Foster and Proust headed for the courtyard, pulling cigarette cases out of their pockets as they walked. President Mimieux heard Fraser's request, noticed Forbes ignoring him, and shot him an exasperated look. The MP saw it and turned back.

"Oh. Were you speaking to me, Constable?" he said, with an expression of surprise.

"Yes, sir."

Forbes put a hand on Fraser's right shoulder and squeezed. "Of course, Constable. What's on your mind?"

Fraser barely managed not to wince. "In private, sir?"

The MP dropped his hand, took a quick look around, and then gestured to the chapel door. "In there, Constable."

Fraser hesitated. "Sir, I think perhaps it would be better –"

But, Forbes wasn't listening. He had pushed the door open. The chapel was empty. He kept going down the nave until he was near the altar, then turned to face Fraser.

Fraser caught up to him, pointing up at the curved wood fins overhead. "Sir, I should tell you that –"

Forbes cut him off. "This doesn't change anything, Fraser," he said, voice dripping with venom. "You might be riding high now, but it won't last. These things never do." He glanced over Fraser's shoulder to be sure the door to the hall was shut. "Take your moment. Go ahead. Gloat."

"I'm not gloating, sir." He frowned, taken aback. He rubbed his brow with his thumb and started again. "I know that you favored charging Detective Vecchio. I wanted to thank you. For reconsidering. And to assure you –"

Forbes shrugged. "I'm a politician, Fraser. I can tell which way the winds are blowing."

"Yes, sir," he said, uncertainly. He tried again, "If you still harbor reservations about his conduct, I wanted to assure you that Detective Vecchio's motives and character –"

"I don't give two shits about Vecchio," Forbes snarled.

Fraser blinked. "Ah," he said, after a moment. "This was about me."

Forbes smiled without humor. "The penny drops." He ran a manicured hand over the smooth wood of a pew. "Actually, I _was_ pissed at Vecchio for spoiling a perfectly good plan. You were that close," he held up his thumb and forefinger, one inch apart, "to being expelled from the force."

"The firearms certification," Fraser said, grimly. "That was your doing."

Forbes nodded. "Let's just say, I laid the groundwork and put a word in, here and there," he said, cagily. "But that American prick got round the obstacles." He frowned. "I hadn't anticipated that." He waved a hand, philosophically. "Best laid plans and all that." He drew a breath. "No, Vecchio can go back to Chicago with his maple syrup and live happily ever after, for all I care. No hard feelings."

He scowled at Fraser. "You, on the other hand ... " He sneered at him. "Do I have to explain why?"

"Gerard," Fraser said, flatly.

"Gerard," Forbes acknowledged. He looked up at the ceiling and said, in a conversational tone, "I bet you didn't know that he's the reason I joined the RCMP. He caught me, when I was a boy, breaking into a cash register at a diner. Instead of turning me in, he took an interest, helped me finish school, sponsored me when I applied to the Academy. He was my first commander in the territory. Took me under his wing, even saved my life once. Set me up for my illustrious career by giving me all the credit in the arrest of Rattlesnake Joe. Remember that? It made all the papers at the time."

Fraser had been a child, but he remembered the famous incident. And more. Remembered Sergeant Gerard, the man who used to be his father's friend, who once had been someone to look up to. Someone _he_ had looked up to.

Forbes continued. "He was like a father to me. My real father," he laughed, without humor. "Let's just say he wasn't a good guy." He fixed a withering eye on Fraser. "And now, Gerard's in prison for life, disgraced, humiliated." He added. "I've had to distance myself. Denounce him. Deny him, like scraping so much shit off the bottom of my shoe. Because of you."

"I'm sorry," Fraser said. He meant it. Not for his actions in exposing Gerard's crimes, but for everything else, what had come before, and what had come after.

"You should be," Forbes snapped, narrowing his eyes. "You _will_ be." He adopted the philosophical tone again. "I'm a patient man. It's just a matter of time." His voice grew mocking. "Piece of advice? Watch your back."

Without a word, Fraser turned on his heel and walked away. He had gone a half dozen paces when Forbes called after him.

"Don't imagine for a moment that _she_ can do it for you. Stick a fork in her, she's done."

Fraser whirled, and closed the distance between them. He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Thatcher. " He said, shaking his head. "She's had a good run up the ladder, especially for a woman. But now? Let's just say that career opportunities don't grow on trees." He realized what he'd said, and chuckled. "Not even maple trees."

"Sir," Fraser said, tightly, "Inspector Thatcher had nothing to do with Gerard's arrest."

"Of course, she didn't." Forbes shrugged. "But, she's crossed me now," he said, matter-of-factly. "She knows how the game is played. You don't switch teams in the middle of the match." He stroked his chin, thoughtfully. "She's a smart, ambitious girl. I wonder what changed?" He eyed Fraser, speculatively.

"Sir," he said, quickly, "if I resign –"

But Forbes wasn't listening. He slapped his forehead, exclaiming, "Duh!" He gave Fraser a lewd wink. "Can't blame you there, guy. Who wouldn't want a piece of that?" He leaned in, with a leer. "How long have you been fu–?"

He never finished the word. Fraser's fist connected with his mouth and he went down. He sprawled on his butt on the flagstone floor, shocked. Then, he gingerly touched his lip, a triumphant gleam coming into his eyes. "That ought to do it, Constable. That'll do quite nice–"

He stopped as Ray rushed through the door, and sprinted to the altar. He took in the scene at a glance. Fraser, on the balls of his feet, fists clenched, staring down at Forbes, who looked up at him in jubilation, despite his bloody mouth. Before anything else could happen, Ray was there. In a move perfected in high school, he thrust his knee into the back of Fraser's leg. Caught completely off guard, Fraser fell heavily on hands and knees to the flagstone floor. Ray winced. That had to hurt.

He grabbed his left arm. "Fraser!" he shouted, "are you OK?!" Fraser looked up at him, shocked. Ray yelled frantically, over his shoulder. "Brother Nathaniel! Somebody get Brother Nathaniel!"

Fraser was struggling to his feet. Ray helped him, hauling him up with a hand under his armpit. As soon as he was upright, Ray swept his leg out from under him again, and Fraser went down a second time.

Meg skidded to a stop beside them. As she had run into the chapel, she had seen Ray deliberately knock Fraser down, all the while shouting for Nathaniel. She doubted Forbes or anyone else could have seen it, especially with their flowing monks robes. But she had. She stared at Ray, in disbelief. "What's going on here?!" she demanded.

"It's the concussion," Ray said, loudly. "_Benton_'s passing out again." He gave her a meaningful look. He slapped Fraser's cheek repeatedly with one hand, while holding his left arm tightly with the other. "Benton, can you hear me?"

"Yes, I can hear you!" Fraser gasped, still on his knees. He tried to twist away. "Stop that, Ray! I'm fine!"

"No, you're not, _Benton_," Ray said, still slapping. "You know what the doctor said."

Fraser squirmed, but Ray held on tight. He ducked his head to his chest, trying to escape the unnecessary ministrations. "Why are you calling me 'Benton'?!"

"Because, that's your name, _Benton_," Ray said, soothingly. Then, more loudly, "Wow, he's really out of it!" He gestured to Meg. "Grab his arm, Inspector Thatcher, and help me get Benton off this floor. Be careful. He might fall again!"

That was too much for Fraser. He fixed Ray with an accusing glare and spluttered, "I didn't fall! You trip -"

Meg grabbed his right arm, where the stitches were. Fraser hissed and tried to pull his arm away. But, she held on tightly with both hands. "Nathaniel! Brother Nathaniel!" she called.

Forbes, bleeding mouth agape, sat where he had fallen, watching this performance. There was a commotion at the door of the chapel. He looked back to see all of his fellow VIPs clustered there. A short monk shouted, "Let me through! I'm a doctor!" They parted for him like the Red Sea. He hurried down the nave.

Ray and Meg had Fraser up, and were dragging him backwards into a pew. He was resisting them, but they had him off balance, literally and figuratively. "Sit down, Constable," she barked, "and be quiet!" He sat. She quailed at the reproachful look in his eyes, but resolved that in this case, to be cruel was to be kind. "I'm sorry," she said, as she saw Nathaniel fast approaching. She tightened her grip, dug her fingernails into his forearm, and twisted with all her might. For extra measure, she yanked down, hard, pulling on his injured shoulder. All color drained from Fraser's face. He stopped trying to talk and concentrated on not throwing up. So did Meg. Ray looked shocked, then nodded at her in grim approval.

Nathaniel was there. "What happened?" He immediately took in Fraser's distress and reached for his wrist.

Ray recovered and shot him a panicked look. "It's his head! He almost passed out again. I barely caught him!" He shook his head. "Poor guy! I think he's lost control of his impulses, again."

Meg cringed. Ray Vecchio would never win an Academy Award.

Ray spoke to Forbes, still in that over-loud voice. "Did he hit you, sir?"

"Yeah," he said, rubbing his mouth. "It was unprovoked."

Ray commiserated. "He hit me once yesterday, and twice the day before. Just because I was trying to make him take it easy." At Nathaniel's startled look, he said, guiltily. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Brother Nathaniel. But, he's my friend. I know he didn't mean it." Meg gaped at him. Were those tears in his eyes?

"I did _not _hit you!" Fraser choked out.

Ray looked sorrowfully at the doctor. "Memory problems, too."

Nathaniel tsked - tsked and released Fraser's wrist. He grabbed his chin firmly, and peered into his eyes, lifting the lids with his thumb.

"I'm fine!" he protested, squirming out of his grasp.

"Benton! Stop using that word! You are decidedly _not_ fine!" He looked stern. "You're pale, clammy, your pulse is too rapid." He paused, noticing how Fraser was holding his arm and pushed up the sleeves of the robe and surplice. Bloodspots stained the white bandage.

Meg drew a sharp breath as guilt flooded her. Her junior officer looked at her mutely, accusation in his pain-filled eyes.

Nathaniel rounded on her. "I told you not to let him overdo!"

She hung her head. "I'm sorry, Brother Nathaniel. This is all my fault."

"What's going on here?" Forbes demanded, still on the floor. "I'm the one with the fat lip!"

Ray knelt at his side, and peered at his mouth. He clucked sympathetically. "Fraser suffered a major head injury in the fight at the warehouse. He was in a coma for days. Right, doc?"

Nathaniel, busy with his examination, said absently, "I wouldn't call it a coma, and he was unconscious for only thirty six hours, give or take ... but yes, he suffered a very significant injury."

Ray scratched his head. Still, in that loud voice, he asked, "What did you call what he has? Post - something something?"

"Post-concussion syndrome."

Keeping her own voice up, Meg added. "That causes emotional and behavioral lapses and temporary amnesia, doesn't it, Brother Nathaniel?"

"Among other things, yes," he said, impatiently. "I need to get him to bed. Can you walk, Benton?"

"Yes, I can walk," Fraser insisted. "But, I don't need to go to bed!"

His father was peering into his face. "I think you should listen to them, son."

"Stay out of this, Dad," he retorted, without thinking. He stilled, as he realized what he had done. Ray and Meg exchanged genuinely worried looks.

"What about me?" Forbes shrilled.

Nathaniel said, coldly. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Forbes blinked. "One?"

"You're fine." He turned back to his patient. Ray's mouth hung open; he had seen which finger. Nathaniel barked, "Ray!" He closed his mouth with a snap. "Help me get him to bed." He muttered, "I should never have let him get up this soon."

Between them, Ray and Nathaniel hustled Fraser to his feet. As he continued to protest, the Dragon Lady emerged from her lair. "Go to your room, Constable! That's an order!"

His hurt look cut Meg to the quick. But, he went, cradling his right arm. Ray and Nathaniel escorted him from the chapel.

As they ran the gauntlet at the door, the VIPs smiled, and murmured words of encouragement. President Mimieux kissed his cheek and told him to get well soon; Vice President Forquet clapped him on the back, instantly apologizing as Fraser yelped in pain. Followed by a chorus of well wishes, Nathaniel and Ray walked Fraser slowly up the stairs to the sleeping quarters.

The President led the group of officials into the chapel. They stared down at Forbes. He was still on the floor.

"He hit me!"

The President looked down her nose at him. "That poor boy didn't know what he was doing. You can see he's not well."

"He knew exactly what he was doing!" He glared at her, Meg and the RCMP chief. "I'll have him up on charges! Foster, I demand you suspend him! Immediately!"

"Now, Brian," Foster said, patiently. "Fraser's the hero of the hour and injured, to boot. Injured, I might add, in the line of duty. If there's a hearing, all this would come out."

"All what?" Forbes demanded.

Meg said, in a lecturing tone, "You know, Mr. Forbes, the chapel at the Abbey of Sainte-Jean-Baptiste is famous for its acoustics." She gestured up at the woodwork. "It was designed to allow the singing of the monks to be heard throughout the building."

"Who cares?" Forbes said, belligerently, as he dabbed at his lip with his handkerchief.

"You should, Brian," President Mimieux said. "We heard every word. Clear as a bell." At his startled look, she said, "Every word that led to poor Constable Fraser's collapse. I do hope that brave young man is soon back on his feet. He is a credit to his country." Her Vice President nodded vigorously. There were murmurs of assent and some very hard looks directed at Forbes from the group.

The MP swallowed, then said, "Y-yes. Of course, poor fellow. I hope he's soon on the mend." He struggled to stand. No one came to his aid. He straightened his jacket, then looked at Meg, pleadingly. "We'll say no more about it, Inspector."

The Dragon Lady peeked out from behind her professional mien for just a moment. "I think that's wise," she said, coldly.

Brother David entered the chapel and stood respectfully silent until she looked up at him. "Luncheon is served," he said.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

Meg took a deep breath, then knocked softly on the door.

From inside, she heard a muffled, "Go away, Ray."

"It's me," she said. "Inspector Thatcher."

A pause. "Just a moment, sir." She heard movement and other indistinct sounds. Then, "Come in."

She pushed the door open. Fraser lay in the bed, under a sheet and blanket which he held to his bare chest. The bedclothes were disordered, untucked, as if he had just tossed them on the narrow mattress and climbed under. She approached him with slow, guilty steps, noting with relief that the sickly pallor he'd had in the chapel was gone. With the robe off, she could see the dark mottling of the skin, extending from his right shoulder and down the arm. But, she could also see, in places, where the bruises were fading to that ugly green and yellow that signified healing. A fresh white bandage was in place on his forearm. She knew that the snowmobile crash and Henri's punches had really caused these injuries, not her actions in the chapel today. Nathaniel had assured her that Fraser's 'relapse' was temporary, but, she still felt like Attila the Hun, the Marquis de Sade and the Spanish Inquisition rolled into one. She looked around for something to sit on, but the wooden chair was gone.

He noticed. "They took it away."

"Who did?"

"The monks."

"Why?"

"I have been confined to bed on yours and Nathaniel's orders," he said, flatly. "The removal of the chair is to make sure that I stay in bed, as well, I imagine, to keep visitors from lingering."

"Oh. I didn't realize they'd take me so literally," She put her hands behind her back and stood at parade rest. "Still, it's for your own good, Constable."

He looked down at himself. "They took my clothes, too."

She followed his gaze. "All of them?" she said, without thinking.

"Yes." He colored as he said it.

She felt her own face growing hot at the thought of him - starkers - under the thin coverings. "Perhaps, that was a bit overzealous," she granted. "But, intentions were good." She remembered, suddenly, what paved the road to hell. And, what she had come here to say.

"I'm sorry, Fraser," she said, indicating his arm. "Very, very sorry," she added, genuine remorse coloring her tone.

He glanced at the bandaged arm, then back at her. "Sir," he began. "In the last five hours, I have had time to reflect on that ... that ... " He paused, rubbing his forehead in frustration. "I'm sorry, but the only word that comes to mind, is 'farce.'" She nodded, guiltily. "I understand now what that was about in the chapel." He shook his head, dolefully. "I appreciate Ray's efforts, and yours, to protect me from the consequences of my action." He looked directly at her. "But, the fact is that I attacked a Member of Parliament." He paused. "In a church."

"You weren't well, Constable," she began.

He held up a hand. "Please sir. This charade has gone on long enough."

"It's not a charade, Fraser. Whether you admit it or not, your control was affected by the concussion you suffered. We both know you wouldn't have struck Forbes, if not for that."

"No, sir," he said, emphatically. "That is incorrect." He lifted his chin, defiantly. "I was in my right mind when I struck Mr. Forbes. I wanted to shut his mouth." He added, with grim satisfaction. "So, I did." He held her gaze for a long moment. Then, he reached for a book on the night stand, removed a folded sheet of paper from it and handed it to her.

She took it reluctantly, a sense of foreboding stealing over her.

"Sir, if it hadn't been for yours and Ray's intervention and my subsequent restriction to quarters, I would have offered that to you or Chief Superintendent Foster five hours ago."

"He's gone, Fraser. Back to Ottawa. They've all just left," she said, as her heart started hammering. She looked down at the paper without opening it. She cleared her throat. "You were provoked, Fraser. Extremely provoked. We all heard it. Ray, the President, the VIPs, even Nathaniel."

"That's no excuse for my behavior, sir. I am a Mountie."

"So? You're not perfect, Fraser! Nobody is! A ... a ... lapse of judgment under extreme conditions does not negate all the good that you've done since you donned the uniform. Or all the good you could still do." She added, acknowledging his current state of undress. "Once, you get back into uniform."

"I did consider that –"

She tried another tack. "This is exactly what Forbes wants. You can't let him win, Fraser."

"It's not about winning and losing, sir. It's about –" he stopped.

"What? What is it about?"

He looked at her. "You," he said simply. Then added, "Your career."

"And what about _you_? Your career?"

"Sir, any effect on _my_ career would at least be the result of actions and decisions _I _made."

Meg shook her head, sharply. "There's a flaw in that reasoning, Fraser. Perhaps, despite the excellent acoustics, you didn't hear all that Forbes said in the chapel. He's got a grudge against me, now. Do you really think he'll let it go if you resign from the Service?"

He opened his mouth to reply when a muffled voice came from outside the door.

"She's right, Benny."

"Ray?" Meg called. "What are you doing out there? Come in here."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

She heard his dejected sigh through the closed door. "He told Brother Nathaniel that he was afraid he might hit me again." He paused. "So, I've been barred."

"Get in here!" she bellowed. "Now."

"Yes, ma'am." The door opened and Ray poked his head around the edge. He slid in, shut the door, and slumped against it. "OK, Benny?"

Fraser shrugged, not looking at him.

"You don't have to talk to me. Just listen to her," he pleaded. "She's making sense."

Fraser paid no attention to him. "Sir, if you would read my letter –"

"Let me finish, Constable." As he started to protest, she barked, "That's an order." He subsided.

Encouraged by Ray's supportive presence, Meg took a moment to muster her arguments. "First of all, even if you resigned, I fully believe that Forbes will not forgive or forget me. I didn't play along with his plan to force you out. Are we agreed on that point?"

"Damn straight," Ray said.

Fraser shrugged again.

"Are we agreed, Constable?" She put some steel into it. He straightened to attention in the bed.

"Yes, sir," he said, crisply.

"Second, you're a hero." She turned to Ray. "Both of you."

He grinned. "You, too."

She nodded. "We can use that. It gives us some protection against Forbes' vitriol. At least, for the short term." She shifted her feet. She had been standing for most of the last few hours and would have welcomed that chair. "But, to be less cynical about it, the world needs its heroes."

"I'm no hero, sir," Fraser said, squirming uncomfortably in the bed.

She blew out an exasperated breath. "Well, if you're not, you're the next best thing. The Surete, OPP, RCMP, the Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers, they're all going to give us commendations. In the Federation's case, it'll be a secret commendation. But, still ..." She glanced at Ray. "That includes you, Detective. "

"Really? I thought I was just taking home the consolation prize."

She flashed him a quick smile at his attempt to lighten the mood. "A lifetime supply of Quebecois Dark Reserve is quite a parting gift. But, Canada is grateful to you and will officially recognize it." She turned back to Fraser. "It's important for the Service to be seen in a good light. Helps negate some of the ugliness that Gerard left us. And, it's an inspiration to our fellow officers. If you resigned over this incident, all that goodwill would be lost."

"She's right, son." His father perched on the foot of the bed. Fraser looked a question, careful not to speak to him. Bob nodded solemnly.

Encouraged by his silence, Meg continued, "Third, Forbes' influence was greatly diminished today. All of the VIPs heard what he said to you and they didn't like it. Not one bit. Chief Superintendent Foster was particularly upset that Forbes had already interfered in RCMP personnel matters, and has now threatened both our futures." She tossed her head. "Now, Forbes is an elected official and his position in Parliament is up to the voters. But, the Chair of the RCMP oversight committee is a discretionary appointment made by the other members of the Committee. He has many enemies there, already." At Fraser's surprised look, she arched an eyebrow. "I assure you, Constable, that I know what I am talking about."

"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir."

"I would not be surprised if there is a reshuffling of that committee after this. If Foster has anything to say about it. The Chief Superintendent commands a great deal of respect within Parliament."

"Yes, sir."

She looked earnestly at him. "Forbes won't last, Constable."

"I confess that I did not consider that, sir." He gave her a sheepish look. "Politics is not my forte."

"Obviously," she said, drily.

"So," Ray said, scratching his head. "I'm lost. Are you or are you not resigning?"

Fraser continued to ignore him. "Read the letter, sir," he urged.

She looked down at the piece of paper. With shaky fingers, she opened it and quickly scanned the contents. It was dated today, with the time noted, five hours ago:

_To: Inspector Margaret Thatcher, RCMP_

_It has been my great honor and privilege to serve under your command. Thank you kindly for what you tried to do. However, I regret that the events of this date have made it necessary for me to tender my resignation, effective immediately._

_Sincerely,_

_s/ Benton Fraser, Constable. RCMP _

She looked at him, stricken.

"All of it, sir," he urged.

She glanced back down at the paper.

_Post script [same date, one hour later]_

_Sir,_

_Upon reflection, I make my offer to resign contingent upon your decision to accept it. I will abide by whatever decision you make._

_Sincerely,_

_s/Benton Fraser, Constable. RCMP_

She stared at him.

"What's it say?" Ray demanded. She thrust the letter into his hands.

Fraser blew out a breath. "I had time to think, sir." He gestured down at himself, with a rueful expression. "There was little else I _could_ do." He looked up at her. "I considered the same points that you just made." He paused. "All except the last. The political consequences to Forbes of today's events had escaped me."

"So, you're not resigning?" Ray asked, hopefully.

Fraser looked at him directly for the first time. "That's up to the Inspector, Ray."

He looked worried. "Uh, Benny, that concussion is for real, you know. You do remember she tried to fire you?" He glanced at Meg. "No offense."

She shrugged a silent _none taken_.

"I do," Fraser said, his gaze locked on Meg.

Ray drew a breath, about to argue his own case. He shut his mouth. Nothing he could say now would make a difference. Might even make it worse. It was time for the Dragon Lady to show her true colors. He held his breath.

Inspector Margaret Thatcher didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, she took the paper from Ray, folded it carefully in half, and tore it in two.

"Yes!" Ray said, pumping his fist in the air. He reached to hug her, then backed off when she directed Dragon Lady #44 at him. He wasn't quite sure what that one meant, but he stuck out a hand instead, hoping he wouldn't pull back a bloody stump. "Put her there, Inspector."

She took his hand and squeezed. Ray caught the twinkle in her eye and smiled. She let him go and turned on her heel. At the door, she turned back, "We're leaving tomorrow afternoon, gentlemen. We have a Lear jet departing North Bay airport at three, courtesy of the British Consulate."

"Cool," Ray said, grinning.

"I can't, sir," Fraser said, with real regret. "I'm confined to this bed for the next three days."

"I'll talk to Nathaniel," she said, confidently.

"I don't think it will make a difference, sir." He shot Ray a sour look. "You were too convincing. Both of you." He made a face. "I've suffered the worst relapse Brother Nathaniel has seen in thirty years of practicing medicine."

"I'll tell him it was all a show –" She stilled, a troubled expression on her face. "I can't do that," she said, with dawning realization.

"No, sir," Fraser acknowledged. "You can't put him in that position."

Ray looked at them, in disbelief. "So, we're stuck here for three more days?"

"Just me." For the briefest of instants, dejection marred Fraser's features, then he said, stoically. "You two go on ahead," he said. "I'll follow in a few days."

Ray shook his head. "No way! I can't face Elaine and Frannie and Dief and all that fuss without you. I need more peace and quiet before that onslaught." He licked his lips. "And, more of Brother Victor's cooking." He said, eagerly, "Tonight, we're having_ daube. _Whatever that is."

Fraser said, glumly, "Beef, red wine, and vegetables, braised slowly for hours in a clay pot called a _daubiere_. "

"Why the long face, Benny? It sounds great."

"Because, Ray," he said, pointedly, "for the next few days, I am on a restricted diet. Tea and broth, supplemented with Brother Nathaniel's herbal potions. If and when he deems me ready for solid food, I may have gruel."

"Gruel?"

"Gruel."

Ray frowned. "Like in Oliver Twist? That gruel?"

"Yes."

Ray looked truly sorry. "At least, Brother Victor's gruel will be the best damn gruel you ever had."

Fraser gave him a withering look.

Meg smiled. "I'll see what I can do, Constable." She nodded at Ray and left the room. As soon as she closed the door, she did a little victory dance down the hall. She stopped as she saw young Brother Matthew staring at her. She straightened, gave him a cool look, and wished him a good evening.

Ray stood uncertainly in the middle of the room. "You want I should go?"

"No."

He brightened. "So, you're talking to me again?"

"Obviously," Fraser said, drily.

Ray plopped on the end of the bed. Fraser barely got his feet out of the way.

"Three days, huh?" He looked around at the small, mostly empty room. "Three days," he repeated, grimly, shoulders slumping as he leaned back against the wall.

"Ray, you don't have to –" Fraser began.

He was interrupted by a commotion at the door. There was a perfunctory knock, followed immediately by the door opening. Young Brother Matthew's back was against it. He was arguing, albeit politely, with Brother Charles, who was trying to maneuver around him. He poked his head around the door.

"Brother Benton, may we come in?"

"Yes, of course. Please."

Matthew reluctantly moved out of the way. Charles, followed by Brother Etienne, came in and shut the door quickly. The tiny room was filled to capacity.

He beamed at Fraser. "You're looking better, my boy. Feel up to visitors?"

"Yes, sir," he said, eagerly. "I'm sorry. There are no chairs."

Brother Matthew protested. "Nathaniel said he has to rest. I'm supposed to keep an eye –"

Charles clapped him on the shoulder. "He'll stay in bed. Won't you, Benton?"

"Yes," he said. "I promise, Brother Matthew," he added.

"There, you see," Charles told the young monk. Matthew wasn't happy, but he stifled his protests. "Be a good boy and go fetch us three chairs."

As he opened his mouth to protest, Etienne added, "Obedience, Matthew."

"Yes, Brother," he said, sullenly, and departed.

Etienne said to Ray, "Congratulations! I hear the house arrest has been lifted and your status has been upgraded from goat to hero."

He laughed. "Something like that."

"Guess you won't need that lawyer's name, then."

"No. But thanks."

Etienne peered at Fraser. "You, on the other hand ... Nathaniel's got you under lock and key. What's the sentence?"

"Three days," Fraser said, glumly.

"Bread and water?"

"Not even," Ray scoffed. "Liquids and that herbal shi - uh, stuff."

"Too bad," Charles said, smacking his lips, "Dinner tonight is Victor's specialty - _daube. _He was famous for it at his restaurant, once upon a time."

Fraser sighed deeply.

There was a clatter at the door. Etienne pulled it open. Matthew was there, awkwardly carrying three of the wooden straight-backed chairs. The monks relieved him of his burdens, placing the chairs in a semi-circle facing the bed.

"See, Matthew," Charles said, taking one of the seats. "Brother Benton will stay in bed."

"OK," he said, truculently. "But, I'll be right outside," he warned. He left, pulling the door shut behind him.

Ray scooted off the bed and took a chair; Etienne took the third. Charles reached inside his brown robe and extracted a deck of cards from the folds. He shuffled them, expertly. Ray wouldn't have been surprised to learn that he had been a croupier in Vegas, in his former life.

"What's your game, Benton?"

Fraser hesitated. Other than "Go Fish" as a child and "Solitaire," he had only played cards once before ...

Before he could speak, Ray asked, "Do monks play poker?"

"They do," Charles answered. "Poker, then? Dealers choice?"

Fraser deadpanned. "Not strip poker, please. I'm afraid I'd be at something of a disadvantage," he said, gesturing down at himself.

They laughed, then Charles said, "Five card draw."

Fraser frowned, trying to remember the rules. He had played poker that time on stakeout in Chicago. "Aces are still the high card, right?"

"Ri-ight," Charles said, with a gleam in his eye as he professionally assessed the rube in the bed.

"What are the stakes?" Ray asked.

"Gambling is illegal under Canadian law, Ray," Fraser said, quickly.

Etienne looked heavenward, "Under a higher law, as well."

"Besides," Charles said, practically, "we've taken a vow of poverty."

"I'll stake you all," Etienne offered. He pulled a box of kitchen matches out of the pocket of his robe and dumped it on the bed. He started divvying up the matchsticks into four little piles.

Charles nodded, then deftly dealt the cards onto the blanket. "One-eyed jacks are wild."

They had been playing for an hour, when there was another kerfuffle outside the door.

"I tried to stop them!" That was Matthew's agitated voice. "But, they wouldn't listen."

Brother Nathaniel burst in to the room, Matthew on his heels.

"What's going on here?" he demanded.

To Ray's astonishment, Charles, who was twice the size of the physician, looked cowed. So, too did Etienne, the former criminal prosecutor from Montreal.

"Nothing," they muttered, looking down at their feet. But, they were caught red-handed, holding the cards, the pot of matchsticks lying on the blanket.

Nathaniel glared at them all. "I prescribed rest." He went to his patient. As Fraser opened his mouth to speak, Nathaniel popped a thermometer in it and grabbed his wrist.

"We were just visiting," Ray said, defensively. Then, added in appeal, "Doc, he's gonna go crazy stuck in bed for three more days."

Nathaniel shushed him while he took Fraser's vital signs. He harrumphed. "You've seen what happens if he gets overexcited." He removed the thermometer, glanced at it, then peered into the Mountie's eyes. He winked, broadly. With his back to the rest of the room, only Fraser could see it. Nathaniel looked over his shoulder at Ray and growled, "This boy's a wreck. Tell me the truth, this time. Has there been any repeat of the physical violence?"

"No!" Ray protested. "No, never. He wouldn't!"

Fraser made a noise in his throat. Everybody looked at him. "I ... have had ... urges," he confessed. He hung his head. "I'm sorry, Ray." His voice broke on the name. He turned his face to the wall, his jaw clenching and unclenching, as he struggled to keep his composure.

"Benny. Hey, Benny." Ray was stunned. Had he really been that oblivious to how fragile his friend's condition actually was? "It's OK, buddy," he said, inadequately.

"I hope you're proud of yourselves," Nathaniel said, self-righteously.

"I told them," Matthew cried.

"But, it's just a little poker, Nat," Charles said, in a small voice.

"And he was winning!" Etienne added, contritely. "I'm sorry, Benton. We didn't mean any harm."

"But, he seems fine," Ray blurted.

"Fine! Fine!" Nathaniel spluttered, indignantly. "If I hear that word one more time, so help me, I'll ... I'll ... " He trailed off, leaving the finished thought to their imaginations.

Charles, Etienne and Ray exchanged guilty looks. To their horror, Fraser buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook and he made choking noises as he fought to control himself.

"Now, now, Benny," Ray said, really worried now, as he patted his good shoulder. "You just rest, now. Everything will be fi – " He glanced at Nathaniel.

"Everything will be OK."

Fraser couldn't stand his distress anymore. "S-s-sorry, Ray," he chortled, peeking out from between his fingers. There were tears in his eyes. Ray glanced worriedly at the physician. Nathaniel tried to look stern, then his lips twitched, and he lost it, and howled with laughter. Ray looked at the other monks, who looked back at him in confusion. Slowly, it dawned on them that they were the butt of the joke.

"Very funny, Benny," Ray said, sourly. He turned to Nathaniel. "About those violent urges. I'm having a few of them myself, doc."

That set the whole room off. Even Matthew joined in, though he was not quite sure what was going on.

Nathaniel, recovering, said, "No, seriously, Benton. Your pulse, blood pressure, temperature are all normal." He beamed. "You're responding remarkably well to my regimen. Nothing like an herbal cleanse to fix you right up." He patted his good arm. "We'll keep it up, shall we?" Fraser's face fell, but he nodded, gamely. Nathaniel looked pointedly at the other monks and Ray.

They got to their feet. Charles gathered up the cards while Etienne picked up the matchsticks. Ray hoisted the chairs and shuffled to the door.

Nathaniel watched them, then glanced at Fraser's face. "Well," he said, slowly, "perhaps, we can make one alteration in the prescription." He turned toward the door. "Get back here, you three." At their confused expressions, he added, "Well, don't just stand there."

Ray grinned, and swung the chairs around. Etienne and Charles took their seats, setting up a new game with cards and matchsticks.

Nathaniel looked sternly at them. "Don't let him overdo it. Even if he is winning."

"We won't," Ray, Etienne and Charles chorused, trying to look trustworthy.

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. "I've heard that one before." He glanced at Fraser, noting with approval his bright eyes and the color in his cheeks. "I see I'll have to keep a closer eye on you, myself, Benton." He bellowed. "Matthew!" The young monk poked his head through the door. "Bring another chair." Then, "Give me some matchsticks, Etienne. Deal me in, you old reprobate." He settled in the chair that Matthew brought. "Close your mouth, Ray, you look like a codfish."


	7. Chapter 7

**EPILOGUE**

"There she is, Benny!" Ray said, excitedly, peering through the glass doors of the terminal exit. He pushed the door open and hurried through. It swung back, nearly striking a little old lady that Fraser had politely ushered ahead of him. He lunged for the door and held it for her and the flock of elderly women in her wake.

"She's over there!" Ray called over his shoulder. He hoisted the backpack higher and quickened his pace on the sidewalk. "God, I missed her."

Frannie Vecchio waved a mittened hand enthusiastically from the passenger pickup spaces at the curb. She wore tight jeans and a short rabbit fur jacket. A bright knitted cap with pom-pom perched on her head, matching her mittens. The cold had pinked her cheeks and nose. She made an attractive picture, smiling broadly as a light snow fell. Several men gave her an appreciative glance in passing as they hurried by.

Ray broke into a trot and raced toward his sister. She stepped out to meet him, arms opening in an embrace, when he ran past her and laid himself over the hood of the Riviera. He ran his hands across the green metal, brushing away the snow that had accumulated there. "Ooooh, I'm so glad to see you, baby! Did you miss me?" he crooned.

Frannie turned and glared at him. She crossed her arms over her chest and thrust out a hip. "You are such a jerk, Ray Vecchio!"

"Hello, Francesca," a voice said behind her.

She spun. "Benton!"

Fraser smiled down at her, then staggered back as she threw her arms around him. She squeezed him tightly for a moment, her head resting against his chest. Before he could react, she let him go and stepped back. "Welcome home," she said, looking up at him, shyly.

"Thank you kindly." Fraser's cheeks were as pink as hers now. He looked down at his feet, then back at her. "It's good to be back."

Ray tapped her on the shoulder. "Gimme the keys," he demanded. She whirled, fire in her eyes. As she opened her mouth to berate him, he swept her up in a bear hug, lifting her clean off her feet. She buried her face in his shoulder and held on tight. When he set her down at last, he saw her eyelashes were wet. Ray was touched, but before he could say anything, she punched him in the arm. Hard.

"Ow!" He scowled, rubbing the spot. "What's that for?"

"For scaring me to death! Don't you ever, ever do that again!" She looked sternly at Fraser, but contented herself with shaking a finger at him. "That includes you, too!"

"I'm sorry, Francesca," he said, contritely. "I'll try."

Ray rolled his eyes. "Ri-ight! That'll last five minutes. C'mon, gimme the keys, Frannie."

"What are you wearing?" she said, in distaste, as she reached into a pocket.

Ray held his arms out at his sides, displaying the bulky neon yellow parka with the patchwork stitching over the heart. "What? It's warm," he said, defensively. His Armani overcoat was now evidence. He'd never see it again.

She looked askance, as she searched another pocket. She dug the keys out of her tight jeans with difficulty, dropped them in the snow, then bent to pick them up, attracting some appreciative looks from male passersby, who hurried on at Ray's glare. Frannie tossed the keys over. Ray clicked the door locks, then opened the trunk. He blinked. It was filled with shopping bags from Marshall Fields, Bonwit's, and every other department store in the downtown Chicago area. He made a nest and gently laid the backpack down among them. Two mason jars of the Quebecois Dark Reserve and two growlers of the Abbey's Heavenly Elixir were nestled inside, wrapped carefully in muslin. They had survived the long journey so far, despite a thousand potholes on the road to North Bay and the turbulence over Lake Ontario. Just a few more miles to go.

When he got behind the wheel, Fraser had already settled in the back seat, with Frannie at shotgun. Ray started the engine. He nearly had a heart attack as Olivia Newton-John's _Hopelessly Devoted _blared out of the speakers, rattling the windows. He snapped off the radio, in disgust. As he reached for the gearshift, he automatically glanced at the odometer.

"You've been driving my car!" he accused.

"Just around the neighborhood," Frannie said, innocently. "And to the airport, today."

He squinted at the dial and did the math. "Six hundred miles around the neighborhood?! That's like to Quebec and back!"

"Actually, Ray, it's seven hundred miles to Quebec from Chicago. One way," Fraser said, helpfully. "By road, that is. Not barge," he added.

"I had to take Ma to the doctor's too, didn't I?" Frannie said, quickly. "She got a real good report, too." She successfully diverted Ray for ten minutes while they discussed their mother's health before he circled back to the argument.

Fraser looked out the window at the passing scenery as they headed downtown. He had already tuned out the battling Vecchios, a survival skill he had acquired over the course of several months. He cracked open the window and breathed deeply of the cold air, tinged with the rich, varied smells of urban life - motor exhaust, steam vents, garbage, fried food. The fresh snow was softening the sharp edges of the city and muffling the cacophony. He noted the new construction outside the Merchandise Mart, and the fresh graffiti on the El platform at Wacker Avenue. He had been gone only a few weeks, but it seemed much longer. He realized, to his surprise, that he had missed the city and mused on that novel thought for the rest of the journey. He was startled when Ray pulled to a stop and exited the vehicle. They were at the Consulate already.

"You're going to work, now?" Frannie said, surprised. "It's after five. Why don't you start fresh in the morning, Benton?"

"I've been away two weeks, Francesca. It's best if I start catching up as soon as possible."

"But, you're not dressed," she protested. Like Ray, his civilian clothes were clean, but shabby-looking. She had noticed the patch sewn on to the back of his jeans when he had climbed into the back of the car. And, the fact that his pants were a little baggy in the seat. Not that she was complaining. He still had the cutest butt in Chicago.

"I have a spare uniform in my office," he explained. As he pushed the driver's seat forward, he said, "Thank you kindly for picking me up, Francesca."

"Anytime you need a ride, Benton." She smiled. "You can be my pickup."

He nodded uncertainly, and hastily exited the car.

Ray had opened the trunk and carefully extracted a bundle from the backpack. "Here you go, Benny."

"Thanks, Ray," he said, warmly.

"Hey, don't thank me. That's from Brother Victor."

"No, I meant ..." he rubbed an eyebrow with a thumb, and shrugged. "Thanks ... for everything."

Ray frowned. "Don't go getting all touchy-feely on me, Benny. We're not in Canada, anymore."

Fraser cleared his throat. "No, of course not." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the front entrance. "I have to go. See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Ray said, smiling. "See you tomorrow." He got behind the wheel. "Dinner's at seven."

Frannie leaned out the window. "Don't forget. Ma's been cooking for three days."

"I wouldn't miss it, Francesca."

As the Riviera pulled away from the curb, Fraser heard them resume the argument right where they had left off. He walked up the steps of the Consulate and used his key to open the front door. As he closed it behind him, he was nearly bowled over by Diefenbaker. He managed to sit down on the stairs without dropping the mason jar, but it was a close thing. He didn't protest as the wolf licked and nuzzled him enthusiastically. "All right, Dief. All right," he said, again and again, as he petted his friend. "I missed you, too." Eventually, Dief settled back on his haunches with a toothy grin.

Fraser wiped his face with his sleeve. He spoke slowly, enunciating carefully. "I received a full report from the Inspector about your actions while I was away. Well done, Diefenbaker. Very well done."

Dief wagged his back end. He cocked his head, and looked at Fraser with a critical eye. He made a noise.

"I'm OK. Really." Another grumble-growl. "Well, yes, I have lost a little weight," he acknowledged. "But, it looks like you've found it." He looked at him sternly. "Tomorrow, we start a new training regimen. We both need it." He ignored the grumbles of protest and got to his feet.

Turnbull stood in the hall, in full dress uniform. He raised his arm in a crisp salute, while tears glistened in his eyes. Fraser sighed, and returned the salute. Turnbull rushed to him. "Welcome back, sir! Oh, welcome back!" In a defensive move, Fraser thrust out his hand before he could be embraced. Turnbull clasped it enthusiastically, pumping his arm up and down hard enough to cause twinges in his shoulder. Fraser gritted his teeth and managed to extract himself before his arm fell off.

"Thank you, Constable," he said.

Turnbull wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, then blew his nose. "We missed you, sir."

"Thank you for taking care of Diefenbaker." He glanced down at the wolf. "He appears well-fed."

"He was no trouble, sir. None at all." He blew his nose once more. "The Inspector asked that you report in as soon as you arrived," he said, grimacing, as he looked upstairs. He leaned in and whispered, "She's been on the telephone all day. Right now, with Ottawa."

Fraser nodded. He appreciated the warning. Telephone calls with Ottawa usually engendered a foul mood in the Inspector. "I'll go right up." He picked up the muslin-wrapped jar from the stair riser and took a step. He turned back. "Oh, Turnbull?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I know my absence must have placed an extra burden on you. I apologize for that. Were you able to participate in the school district's World Cultures Day?"

"Oh, yes," he said, eagerly. "I was invited back next year."

"Good." Fraser took another step, then turned again. "What was our dish?" he asked, curious.

"Gingered-maple pork medallions, served over a bed of maple-roasted root vegetables and wild rice," he said, proudly. "With maple-polenta souffle for dessert."

Fraser's empty stomach rumbled in reaction. "That sounds delicious," he said, sincerely. Turnbull beamed at the praise. He lowered his voice. "So ... how did we do?"

Turnbull made a face. "Second place, sir."

"The paella?"

Turnbull nodded. "It came down to one vote, sir," he said, with a trace of bitterness. "I hate to speak ill of anyone, but I suspect cronyism."

"You may be right," Fraser commiserated. He looked down at the muslin-wrapped bundle in his hands. He permitted himself a tiny sigh of regret before offering it to the junior officer. "Here. Use this next year."

Turnbull unwrapped the muslin and stared at the mason jar of brown liquid. "What is it, sir?"

"That, Constable, is the Quebecois Dark Reserve."

Turnbull's jaw dropped. He cradled the jar in his arms as if he were holding a newborn. "The Reserve?" he whispered, awestruck. He snapped to attention. "Thank you, sir! I won't let you down." He turned on his heel and carried his burden carefully into the kitchen.

Fraser watched him go with amusement, then mounted the stairs two at a time. The Inspector's voice drifted down the long hall from the open door of her office.

"Yes, sir," she said. "I understand, sir. Yes, sir. He is quite ... something. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." She set the phone down in its cradle slowly and stared at it, a stunned expression on her face. When she looked up, she saw Fraser standing in the doorway of her office, his hand poised to knock on the door frame.

She stared at him without speaking. He looked back at her, unsure if he should step into the room, acutely aware that he was out of uniform and that his civilian clothes gave him a seedy aspect. The silence stretched. He finally broke it.

"Turnbull said you wanted to see me, sir?" He paused, feeling more awkward than usual. "I could change first, if - "

Meg blinked. Get a grip, she told herself. This is your junior officer and you are his commander. There was a line between them. It was a line that could not be crossed. The extreme circumstances in Quebec had blurred that line. It was up to her to restore it. The fact that what she really wanted was to throw her arms around him was irrelevant. Discipline needed to be restored. Starting now. Unfortunately, the only way Meg knew how to discipline herself was at his expense.

"Don't stand out in the hall, Fraser," she snapped. "Get in here."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," he said, hastily moving to the desk where he stood stiffly at attention.

"You're late," she said, flatly.

"Yes, sir. Our flight was cancelled due to mechanical problems and then, there was weather over the Lake they call..."

She wasn't listening as she eyed him critically. He looked well enough, thinner than when he had left Chicago, but substantially fit. Those clothes, however, had seen better days. She supposed they were the clothes he had been wearing on the night he and Vecchio had disappeared from Brannigan's Wharf.

He seemed to read her mind. "I realize my appearance is ... substandard, sir. But, it was either these or the monks robes. Ray, I mean Detective Vecchio, pointed out that the robes were ... impractical ... for Chicago weather, " he said, apologetically. "I could change–"

She interrupted him, holding out her hand. "I believe you have something for me from Brother Nathaniel?"

He sighed, and reached into his pocket. He extracted the bulky sealed envelope addressed to her in the monk's neat script and handed it over.

She slit the envelope with a letter opener, removed a folded sheet of paper, and squinted at it. "He says you're restricted to light duty for two more weeks."

"I really don't think that's necessary, sir. I'm fi –"

She interrupted him. "He also says if you tell me that you are fine, I am to dose you with this." She held up a glassine envelope with dried leaves and seeds in it. "Three times a day for those two weeks."

Fraser blanched at the prospect of the continuation of Brother Nathaniel's herbal cleanse regimen. "I'm better, sir. Truly," he hastened to say. He paused at her skeptical look. "Perhaps, not one hundred percent," he acknowledged, reluctantly. "But, in the high eighties." He added, "And improving daily."

She fixed him with a stern eye. "All right. I'll accept that," she said, brusquely. She dropped the herbal packet into the middle drawer of her desk. "But, you _are_ restricted to light duty for the next fourteen days. And, I want you on your best behavior on your off-duty hours, too. You are not to risk your life or limb for the next six weeks. Is that clear?"

"Six weeks, sir?"

She indicated the phone. "I just hung up with Chief Superintendent Foster. We have been chosen for a special assignment, Constable." She allowed herself a small smile, then quickly quashed it. "A plum assignment."

"Sir?"

"We, that is, you and I, have been chosen as security escort to the Musical Ride on its tour of six major US midwestern cities, including Chicago." She looked eagerly at him. "The tour will be accompanied by an American film crew making a documentary of the RCMP and the Musical Ride for PBS."

Fraser nodded. A plum, indeed. And good public relations for the Service. Perhaps, he and Dief should start the training regimen tonight to be sure he would be in shape in time. "That is good news, sir."

"Excellent news," she agreed. She picked up the phone. "I have arrangements to make. Dismissed, Constable."

Fraser spun on his heel and exited her office. He stood in the hall a moment, wondering what he had done this time to offend the Inspector. He heard a noise and looked down.

"I don't know why, Dief," he said, in response. "But, you're right. I seem to be back in the doghouse." He looked down at himself. Perhaps, it was the shabby appearance. He should have worn the robes, Windy City be darned.

He hurried to his office and shut the door. He quickly changed into his spare uniform, noting with a frown the loose waistline of his trousers. He cinched the Sam Browne tighter around the baggy tunic. Oh well, he thought, resignedly. Mrs. Vecchio thought he was too thin at his normal weight. She would consider it her personal project to fatten him up.

There were several neat stacks of correspondence and forms on his desk. He usually started with the job-related paperwork before the personal, but a colorful postcard caught his eye. He picked it up. It was a beautiful shot of the Golden Gate Bridge, sheathed in thick fog so that it's spires protruded like the masts of a sailing ship. He turned it over. The postmark was a week ago.

Dear Benton,

I will be returning to Chicago the Monday after Easter. Our young friend is staying on. He's enrolled in a program for study and will take his test in two months. I am so proud. He is a bright, eager student, and I have confidence that he will do well at anything he puts his mind to.

Hope you and Ray and Diefenbaker are well and that the unpleasant business is soon resolved. The Senior Center's Spring Fling is on the 30th. Will you wear your red suit and big hat and sing for us?

Fondly,

s/Helen

There was a postscript written in a different hand:

Thanks for everything, dude.

He nearly jumped out of his skin as his father said, over his right shoulder, "I think the boy will be all right, son."

"Do you mind, Dad?" Fraser said, trying to damp down on the adrenaline surging through his body.

"It's a postcard. Everybody reads postcards," Bob protested. "Even the mailman."

"I didn't mean the postcard. Can't you give me some warning before popping in like that?"

"What? Like a bell around my neck?" he said, offended.

"That's an idea, yes." Fraser looked guiltily at the stack of official correspondence, before indulging himself and opening the small buff envelope with his name on it. The return address was in Calgary.

Benton,

I wanted to thank you again for all your help. As you can see from the postmark, we are back home. Sam's recovery has been better than expected and his doctors are well pleased. Not to take anything away from them, but I truly believe that being home with his family under blue Alberta skies has done the trick. He pooh-poohs me, but I know it's true.

Melanie's leave is coming to an end on Monday. She wanted me to thank you especially. She said to tell you that she can do her duty abroad with a lighter heart knowing that someone like you is doing the same on the homefront.

I've enclosed a photo of us with Lady. I told her all about Diefenbaker and she hopes to meet him someday. If you are ever in our neck of the woods, please do come and see us. You are always welcome in our home.

s/Betty Conroy

He handed the letter to his father, who read it through twice before handing it back.

"Nice letter," Bob Fraser commented.

"Yes, it is." He picked up the first item on the first of several stacks of professional correspondence.

"You're making a difference here, son."

Fraser looked up in surprise. "I thought you disapproved of this posting."

His father looked embarrassed and mumbled something that Fraser couldn't catch.

"Pardon?" he said.

"I said, I was wrong." As Fraser gaped at him, he shrugged. "I'll leave you to it, son." And, with that, he was gone.

Fraser sat back in his chair, dumbfounded. Then, he looked at the paper in his hand. It was the memo he had given the Inspector recommending switching pest control companies. She had added a post-it note. "Make it so, Constable." dated two weeks ago, the day he and Ray had ended up on the barge and started their journey across the Great Lakes. He picked up the phone and dialed the new company.

There was a crash and a shriek from downstairs. He dropped the phone back into its cradle and dashed to the door of his office. The Inspector stared at him from the door of her office, her hand at her throat. "What?! What is it?!"

"I don't know, sir," he said, running for the stairs. As he was halfway down them, he heard another scream and Diefenbaker started barking furiously. As he dashed into the kitchen, he saw Turnbull up on a chair, pointing at the refrigerator. "A mouse! I saw a mouse!" He screamed again as the little creature dashed out from under the fridge and darted across the floor. Dief swallowed it in one gulp. Turnbull blanched at the sight and stood swaying on the chair. Fraser looked down at the memo still clutched in his hand. He had time to think "Oh, dear" before the Dragon Lady burst through the kitchen door, breathing fire.

The End.

**NOTE FROM AUTHOR: Well, that's it. I had a hard time ending this. I have been working on it for a year, and it was like saying goodbye to old and dear friends. While this is my first Due South fic, I don't think it will be my last. I've had too much fun playing with these characters. I hope you have enjoyed the story. Thank you for sticking with it. Please let me know what you think!**


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